It's a Cat's Life
by SimplyMe514
Summary: Professor McGonagall is convinced that leaving Harry in the Dursleys' care has been a bad idea, but needs proof before she can act. She decides that the best way to gather evidence is to watch his everyday life from the inside. What happens when, disguised as the family's new pet, she finds out exactly what is going on at Number 4, Privet Drive? - ADOPTED BY potterhead1997 -
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer****: **I do not own the universe of _Harry Potter_. All recognisable characters, settings etc. belong to J.K. Rowling. This disclaimer applies to all future chapters and I do not feel the need to repeat it every time.

**Warning:** if you find any mistakes, blame them on the fact that I study English as a foreign language.

Chapter 1 – The Plan

_Minerva's POV_

"I really think we should check on him, Albus."

"He's perfectly fine. There are plenty of spells to alert me the moment something goes wrong. However, if you insist, I'll contact Mrs. Figg and see what she knows."

"He may be physically fine, but―"

"Stop worrying, Minerva. It was for his own safety."

She huffed. What she had meant to say was: 'but is he happy?'. Somehow, she had her doubts about that. She'd let him leave the toddler on the doorstep of Number 4, Privet Drive that fateful night six years before, mostly because she had the nerve to say no to anyone but a certain Albus Dumbledore, but still, blood wards or no, she couldn't bring herself to shake off the feeling that it had been a very bad idea. Sure, Mrs. Figg was there to report on Harry Potter's well-being on a regular basis, but Minerva couldn't help but think it wasn't enough, just like she thought a letter couldn't be enough to make the Dursleys understand the true importance of raising such a special child. He was seven by now, and that was a potentially difficult age for a young wizard, as his first outbursts of accidental magic were supposed to start happening around that time, if not much earlier. A family of Muggles was hardly the best environment for him to learn to accept and cherish his powers. Arabella meant well and was doing her very best, but what they truly needed was a good overview of his daily routine, not her occasional tidbits of information, and a mere neighbour couldn't possibly know every single detail of his life. She would have to move in with them for a better picture, and quite frankly, the mental image was laughable. _Wait a minute..._

It was as though someone had forcefully stuck a wand into her brain and cast _Lumos_. An idea began to form, but she thought it wiser to focus on something else and file it away for later, lest Albus stop her for whatever Machiavellian reason he had in that dangerously bright mind of his. With a skilled Legilimens in the room, there was no such thing as privacy.

"Very well. If you say so, then I believe this conversation is over. Good night, Headmaster."

"Good night to you too." If he had been the least bit surprised by her sudden hurry or the formality of her words, he didn't show it.

Minerva walked out of the office, briskly but not quite at a run, and allowed herself to begin sketching out more details of her daring plan only when the stone gargoyle was out of sight. It had all the markings of her usual _style_, for lack of a better term: it required a pinch of Ravenclaw cleverness, but – true to her Gryffindor soul – it was reckless and more than a bit insane, the kind of plan in which so many things could go wrong that she didn't even want to start counting them.

* * *

'Research', she'd called it. The excuse she'd given everyone she knew for disappearing for almost an entire summer, with the promise to be back in time to resume teaching the next year, was research. She'd let them believe it was about some obscure point in the theory of Transfiguration that she wanted to study in depth, but it was an entirely different sort of research, one that involved an undercover operation worthy of Severus's best days as a spy, only hopefully less dangerous. Mrs. Figg's fireplace was connected to the Floo Network in case of emergency, thank Merlin, so she simply dropped a handful of powder, stated the address and braced herself for the whirl of emerald flames and sneak peeks into unknown rooms.

Her arrival caused a great deal of surprised meowing, at which she couldn't help but smile slightly. The impressive population of cats residing in that house was actually what had given her inspiration in the first place.

"What's wrong, kitties?" she heard Mrs. Figg call from another room. "Oh, they're cute and all, but they're going to drive me mad someday, making such a racket for noth―Merlin's beard! Professor McGonagall!"

"I'm truly sorry for dropping by unannounced, Arabella, but I'm on a very important... errand," she explained quickly, stepping out of the fireplace and dusting herself off. She'd almost said 'mission'.

"Here, of all places? It wouldn't happen to have anything to do with young Harry, would it?"

"As a matter of fact, it has everything to do with him."

"Oh, dear. But... but... the boy is fine, I can assure you! And such a sweetheart, too, nothing like that fat lump of a cousin of his."

"The rest of his family is exactly what I'm worried about."

"I admit they can be rather unpleasant, but was it really necessary to come all the way here?"

Minerva gave a small, mirthless laugh. "Dumbledore doesn't believe so, but for once I strongly disagree. Now, before I go, I must ask you for something that may be vital to the success of my plan."

"Anything to be of service, Professor, but... what could I possibly do to help you?"

"Don't tell anyone. The Headmaster, above all, mustn't be informed of my little visit, but for good measure, please don't breathe a word of this to anyone, even if you trust them completely."

"Oh. Are you entirely sure?"

"Yes, Arabella, I am, and I'm aware that you probably don't like the sound of this, but if you won't do it as our agent, then do it as a personal favour to someone I hope you can call a friend. I know you can keep a secret, so keep this one as well. Please."

Something in her tone of voice must have done the trick, because the only answer Mrs. Figg could muster was: "My lips are sealed, Professor."

"Very well. I'll go have a look at the Dursleys with my own eyes, then."

She made a start for the door, but Mrs. Figg cleared her throat, stopping her in her tracks. "No offense, Professor, but you're rather... noticeable. The neighbours will think they're seeing things if they spot an unknown woman in a witch's robes coming out of the house, especially since nobody has noticed her going in."

"But they won't think so if you let a cat out to stretch its paws, will they? You're a known cat lady, who's keeping track of how many you have or what they look like?"

Without adding another word, she swiftly transformed into the tabby that was second nature to her, strolled leisurely to the door with the regal attitude only a cat could have and meowed once, in an almost annoyed tone, as if to say: 'A little help here, please? You see, the real downside to being able to turn into a cat at will is the loss of my opposable thumbs.' As the resident expert in all things feline, she seemed to realise what the problem was and opened the door just a crack, so that the rest of the furry colony wouldn't notice the unhoped-for gateway to freedom.

When she looked at it with the eyes of a cat, the world outside had a lot of greens and blues, with the occasional splash of red here and there. She had been a little put out by the sudden narrowing of the spectrum the first few times, but she was long used to it now: her senses were under every aspect those of what Muggle scientists would call _Felis silvestris catus_, but her mind remained as sharp as ever. Assuming her other form most certainly didn't deprive her of her ability to read, so she sprinted through Mrs. Figg's garden and across the street and made quick work of looking up at the shiny brass numbers until she found a large 4.

She sat on the very same wall she had been on the first time around and simply stared at the front door, waiting for any sign of life. Her mission was beginning much in the same way as before, but she intended to take it to the next level: her aim was not to keep constant watch on the house, but on its inhabitants, by being taken in as a pet. It was odd, especially seeing as she hated to be mistaken for a common cat, but it was the only way to have a closer look at the everyday life in Privet Drive.

Just as she was beginning to think that none of them had any intention of braving the heat for the day, someone came outside. No, wait―a small correction was in order. This someone obviously answered to the name of Harry Potter. A stinging sensation in her eyes warned her that she was just about to find out whether or not cats could have the very human reaction of being moved to tears. There he was, finally. It couldn't possibly be anyone else: he held no resemblance at all to his other relatives and was instead a younger carbon copy of James, with round glasses, knobbly knees and a proverbially unruly shock of black hair all marking him as his father's son. She had little experience with children under the age of eleven, but her first impression of Harry was that of a very small boy for his age – hadn't she known his exact birthdate, she would have pegged him as younger than he was. Ah, well, he had all the time in the world to catch up. If she wasn't very much mistaken, James's major growth spurts had occurred late, too.

She watched as he industriously set out to work on the once luxuriant flowerbeds that were now suffering from the first great heat wave of the season. His shirt was soon drenched in sweat, but he kept stoically focused on his task for a little while longer before cautiously looking around and finally allowing himself a much-deserved break. Mrs. Figg had apparently been right in saying Harry was a sweetheart: it was admirable for such a young boy to volunteer to take such a burden on his own shoulders. Hot as it was outside, gardening was probably the least wanted chore at the moment.

Minerva took her chance: now that he wasn't busy with anything else, she could make her first attempt to approach him, and perhaps, if she managed to look either pretty or needy enough, he would scoop her up and go back inside begging them to let him keep her. Admittedly, it would be a very cute scene to watch. She walked up to him and made her presence known by meowing discreetly.

"Hey, Mr. Kitty-Cat," he acknowledged her. She cringed internally at the 'Mr.', but kept staring at him the way only cats could. From this distance, she saw something that made her heart flutter for a second: the resemblance to James was indeed remarkable, but it wasn't complete. His eyes were exactly the same startling shade of green as Lily's. Minerva sent her mental thanks to Merlin for being able to see that colour clearly in cat form, otherwise she might not have noticed. Speaking of his eyes, she also noted that his glasses were clumsily held together with a liberal amount of sellotape. That struck her as an odd detail she would definitely have to look into later. Perhaps he'd taken a bad fall that had broken them and had resorted to it as a temporary means to see where he was going while he waited for the chance to get them repaired or replaced. But it was neither the time nor the place for suppositions: she was on a mission, one that started with the very simple act of rubbing against his legs praying it was sweet enough to make him want her as an animal companion.

"Hey, that tickles!" For the sake of the strict mask she usually wore, she would never admit it, but eliciting a tiny laugh from him warmed her heart. "Aww, you're very cute, you know that?" He reached down to pat her head, his eyes alight with the joy of the surprise encounter, but just then another thought wiped the smile off his face. "But you really should go away. Aunt Petunia doesn't like animals at all, she always says they're dirty. Maybe Mrs. Figg will keep you, but I don't think I can make it to her house and back before they get mad at me. I'm fast, you see, but not that fast." Had she been human, she would have laughed at the chatter that was flowing freely from the child's mouth, but it was to be expected, after all: sometimes they were the most open when they thought their very quiet listener couldn't understand them. What he'd said didn't bode well for her at all, though: while Petunia's dislike for animals made her reasonably sure the Dursleys didn't have any other pets that might have been an argument against her becoming a part of the household, it also made her task of being accepted more than a little harder. And why was Harry so worried about his relatives getting angry at him anyway? From what she had seen six years before, his aunt didn't have a very firm hand when it came to discipline, but seemed to cave to her son's every desire. Had she been an extremely strict parent, his worries would have been more justified, but what was there to fear from a woman who let a one-year-old kick her and scream at her for sweets? Perhaps it was her husband, instead, who usually meted out the punishments that appeared to scare him so much: she would just have to wait and see.

"Well, I'd better finish. Uncle Vernon's already in a foul mood as it is," he sighed, getting back to work. Minerva sat and watched, hardly twitching her tail, as he expertly removed the weeds one by one and distributed much-needed water to all of Petunia's plants (at least, she assumed they were hers judging by the reoccurring tradition of giving all the girls in the family flower-inspired names). Her feline mouth curled into a much too human smile: Professor Sprout would have been proud. Being used even to the simplest gardening tasks could be a huge help in Herbology: she'd seen plenty of pampered little princes who, having been raised as wizards, knew all the theory by heart but screamed in disgust at the sole thought of getting a bit dirty. Harry sure didn't have a problem with that: he ignored the mixture of sweat and soil and simply worked on to the best of his ability until he deemed his job done. There was definitely some Hufflepuff in him, though the stalking operation (Merlin, it sounded horrible when she put it like that) would have to go on to see if any other House traits emerged.

He made to walk back into the house, but not before shooting her a glance. "Still here, huh?"

He shrugged and went inside (or rather attempted to), only to be welcomed by a shrill warning: "If you dare bring those filthy shoes inside, you'll regret it, boy!" It seemed Petunia really did have a few issues with what she believed Muggles called germophobia. Harry sighed almost inaudibly and bent down to unlace his shoes, thus leaving the door open a little longer than strictly necessary: it was now or never. Minerva sprinted as fast as her paws would let her, slinking in before anyone could do anything to stop her. The woman's surprised shriek meant nothing to her: she'd conquered her goal and nothing would remove her now. She'd come back even if they kicked her out by force. Victory!

What happened next appalled her: Petunia grabbed Harry by his ear and pulled him inside, all the while spouting venom: "So now you're bringing in animals too? That thing could be infected! What do you think you're doing, letting such filthy beasts in at your leisure as if you owned the place? Now, listen here, boy: you dirty it, you clean it!"

"So what else is new?" said Harry defiantly, trying not too successfully to loosen her grip on his poor ear.

"What?" Her voice was getting dangerously loud. "Repeat that, if you've got the nerve!" Thankfully for him, she had to let go because her hands were suddenly busy gesticulating in anger. Harry surreptitiously rubbed the offended part.

"I-I meant that I'm supposed to do all the cleaning anyway, cat or no cat. And besides, it came of its own accord. It wasn't my idea to let it in."

"Well, it wouldn't have happened if you had the sense to keep that blasted door closed!"

"I was just―"

"Not a word, boy! The cat has to go."

"Sorry, Mr. Kitty-Cat," said Harry as he tried only half-heartedly to grab her with the obvious intention of taking her back outside. With a mental _It's I who should be sorry_, Minerva dug her claws into his arms the moment he touched her and managed to squirm away.

"Ow! What was that for?" He quickly checked the scratches to see if he was bleeding. The marks were an angry shade of red and looked like they hurt, but he shrugged it off and tried again, only to see her escape his grip at the last second and hide in a corner. What he'd said before was true: the boy was very fast. Not fast enough for a cat, though.

"So now you're talking to it too?"

"Why not? Mrs. Figg talks to her cats all the time."

"Maybe so, but she's... she's... not at all like _us_. Now catch that thing, for Heaven's sake!"

"It's a cat, not a thing. And it looks like it wants to stay."

"Do as I say!"

"I'm trying, Aunt Petunia! Isn't that good enough for you?"

"Well, try harder! I want it out of my sight this instant!"

Harry sighed and walked very slowly to the corner where Minerva was still cowering, his empty hands in plain sight. "Please, I won't hurt you. I just really need to take you outside."

She weighed her options: stay and watch despite all of Harry's efforts, at the risk of earning him a severe punishment, or spare him whatever was to come for his so-called disobedience at the cost of postponing her mission a little? With the feline equivalent of a defeated shrug, she hopped voluntarily into his now outstretched arms and allowed him to carry her back into the garden and close the door behind her. She would try again, that was for sure; in the meantime, she had a lot of new information to ponder about, and none of it was good.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

_Minerva's POV_

Minerva's head was reeling. During the short time she'd spent in the house, Harry's aunt had handled him without even a thousandth of the loving care she'd seen her reserve to her son and denied him the pleasure of a pet just for the sake of cleanliness – speaking of which, it appeared that keeping every surface pathologically spotless was Harry's responsibility as well. At this point, she highly doubted that all the work he'd done in the garden had been his own idea. She had thought of a one-time occurrence, perhaps to raise some more pocket money, or to please someone in honour of their birthday or some other special occasion, but it was probably a normal event. More than anything else, though, what worried her was the woman's tone of voice. There were, of course, more pressing problems at hand: the child was overworked and the rough way he'd been treated was a promise of worse things to come, perhaps even regular beatings, though she was willing to give the Dursleys the benefit of the doubt about that – for now. But that tone alone spoke volumes: her choice of words and the sound of them were all purposefully designed to make Harry feel unwanted, and she knew by experience that young boys were more sensitive than it seemed to such subtleties. She'd seen more than her share of them throughout her career, and she was very much aware that a smile and a kind word or two could make the difference between 'strict but fair' and 'the teacher that everybody hates'. Petunia seemed to have taken all the wise words of advice she'd received from her older colleagues when she started teaching and reversed them: she appeared to be constantly angry at Harry, or at least annoyed by his very presence, and there was always something in her remarks to dutifully remind him that he didn't belong with them, that this was just the house where he happened to live, but not quite his _home_. Minerva had been surprised by how quickly Harry's mind had sprung to the thought of finding her a place to stay, even though he'd been resigned from the very beginning to the idea that he couldn't keep her, but the scene she had witnessed explained a lot. If the other two treated him in the same way, the boy was in desperate need of some form of comfort, and was more than ready to cling with all ten fingers to the presence of a new pet; or maybe – even the consideration was painful – his heart went out to all homeless creatures because he felt homeless himself.

Though her head was full of more apprehension than a cat had ever felt, she forced herself to put her concerns aside for long enough to make two basic decisions: first, that the garden shed would be a suitable hiding spot to sleep, but also to sit and plan new ways to get inside, hopefully for good; second, that until she managed to become the Dursleys' pet, she would turn to Mrs. Figg for meals, either by committing the rather rude act of inviting herself to join her at the table as a human or by feasting on an extra bowl of cat food with her other feline friends. She ended up spending most of the day in her new headquarters, as it offered some respite from the summer sun, doing nothing useful but never truly relaxing, her ears and whiskers waiting for even the smallest sign that something was amiss. She didn't like the sounds coming from the house at all – at what she supposed was dinner time, she thought she heard something that sounded like a heated argument, though she could only make out bits and pieces of what was being said.

"Filthy animals... our house... ungrateful... orphanage..." Whatever they were shouting at him, it definitely didn't bode well for Harry. That last word seemed to hang in the air for a painfully long time: why would they be talking about an orphanage? Minerva didn't know the exact content of that letter, but she was sure Dumbledore had stressed the importance of raising the boy in that house with them. His faith in the blood wards was complete: apparently, he believed that what he'd written was enough to convince them to keep him, even if it was far from making them love him. On the one hand, there was no spell or potion that could force them to, let alone a bit of ink and parchment, but on the other hand, they were his family, and family shouldn't need any help, magical or otherwise, to feel the affection that every child in the world had the right to.

* * *

The next morning, Minerva woke up bright and early and stretched her muscles to get rid of the stiffness she had from sleeping curled up on the hard floor of the shed. Spending long periods of time in her tabby cat form, with all the discomforts, great or small, that came with being an animal, was becoming more and more unpleasant with age. Her sleep had been fitful, perhaps because of the thoughts that plagued her, perhaps because she had vowed to have nothing but cat food all day to get used to the taste and hadn't digested it well. She was willing to endure it, especially now that she'd seen the extent of the problem with her own eyes, but she still shuddered at the idea of not returning to her human self for days or weeks on end.

She was pacing nervously in the garden, waiting for the Dursleys' day to start, when Harry made his second appearance. This time, he entered the shed and emerged from it with a pair of shears much too large and heavy for a seven-year-old to handle with ease, and set out to trim the hedge.

Minerva repeated her little show of meowing, rubbing and generally looking as cute as possible, but his reaction was quite different from what she expected: "You again? Go away."

She sat and looked up at him in surprise, clearly showing that she had no intention of leaving.

"I'm serious! Shoo! You already got me in enough trouble the first time around. Go!"

Ah, that explained it. He wanted nothing more to do with the very thing that had upset his 'family' so much. She took a couple of steps back, but didn't let him out of her sight.

The first break from work came much earlier this time – from the way he was acting, Harry seemed to be aching and tired. She dismissed it as a symptom of the efforts from the day before: something that shouldn't have been there in the first place, but still natural. But when his body language made it clear that something was deeply wrong, she ran to him, finding him too exhausted even to shoo her away. To Harry, it probably looked like she was staring at him for no apparent reason, which was perfectly normal for the notorious staring contest champions that cats usually were, but the truth was that she was examining him from head to toe. Her first thought was: _Where is Madam Pomfrey when you need her?_ The second was that she did _not_ need her, for once. Though his overlarge clothes did a good job of covering most of them – so good, in fact, that she hadn't seen them at first glance – there were several newly-formed bruises on the boy's skin, and she had more than one good reason to imagine the sickening pattern of black and blue continuing under his enormous hand-me-downs. That, too, was a hint that something was amiss: hadn't she seen him wearing them once before, she would have supposed they were a sort of working outfit he only put on for potentially dirty outdoor chores, but all the clues suggested that this was his everyday wear. Not that she'd never seen anyone wearing second-hand clothes, but the families she knew – the Weasleys, for example – at least bothered to shrink them when there was a vast difference in size between the previous owner and the current one. Using scissors, needle and thread instead of a simple spell was, she supposed, longer and harder, but it was no excuse for them to leave him in such a state. She could only hope such behaviour was limited to the house and garden, and that they didn't send him to his Muggle school looking so ridiculous. Being laughed at couldn't do him any good. This wasn't the first case she'd handled, so she could say without fear of bragging that she knew how these things worked. If, as she had all the reasons in the world to believe, Harry was being abused, the treatment must have destroyed what little self-esteem he had by now, and being the butt of everyone's jokes wasn't exactly conducive to rebuilding it.

Harry worked on and on, disregarding the protests of his audibly growling stomach. "Guess I'm skipping breakfast again," he sighed, falling back into his brand new habit of talking to her even though he supposedly didn't want her there anymore. "Uncle Vernon wants the job done quickly because there's some client coming tonight and everything has to look perfect. They've already told me five times to stay out of the way during dinner. Don't they think I know that?"

Minerva had to replay his words in her mind to make sure she hadn't misheard. Why in Merlin's name was he talking about skipping meals as if it were a regular occurrence? Why did he believe he had to remain unseen by guests, as if he weren't part of the family? For the tiniest fraction of a second, she wanted nothing more than to turn back and go hex them into oblivion, but she stopped herself just in time and chose instead to vent her anger and disgust in a much more feline way: her tail got out of control, moving frantically from side to side. It might have looked cute to Harry, especially if he didn't know much about a cat's behaviour, but the true meaning of that gesture was that she was seething.

Just then, the door opened to show Petunia bidding her husband goodbye with a quick peck on the cheek. "Have a nice day, dear."

Such a sweet, respectable everyday scene. She might even have believed they were a perfect family, if it weren't for the fact that Harry put a little more intensity in his work as he passed. Her heart clenched when she saw that he shrank back in his presence, as if to make himself less noticeable. She wished he would go away, if only to make him a bit more comfortable, but no such luck. Vernon stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted her.

"Is that the cat Petunia was talking about yesterday?"

The boy's eyes went from the shears to him and back, and Minerva needed no Legilimency to see what he was thinking: he would have to stop working in order to answer, which would make him angry, but if he went on and kept silent, he would get mad at him for ignoring him anyway.

"Yes, sir," he finally said, not even averting his gaze from the hedge.

"Have the decency of looking my way when you talk to me!"

"Yes, sir," he repeated, this time staring straight at him, though he was obviously afraid. There was another interesting trait to think about: he faced his fears instead of running from them. He'd also had the nerve to be rather defiant to his aunt the previous day. Hmm, were those hints of Gryffindor she detected?

"And you haven't sent it away, even after she specifically asked you to?"

"I-I couldn't, sir. It just came back."

"You _couldn't_?" His hand had an odd sort of twitch, at which Harry flinched visibly. Again, their body language spoke louder than their words: to an acute enough observer, it was painfully clear that he'd just resisted the impulse of hitting him, perhaps for fear of being seen. "Well," here his angered expression faded for a moment, replaced by a sly smile that did not reach his eyes, "make sure it sticks around."

"W-what?" Harry stammered, completely forgetting the 'sir' his uncle seemed to demand from him. This was an outright contradiction compared to his wife's behaviour the previous day, and it understandably came as a shocker to both of them. Was this, perhaps, her chance?

"You heard me. My client's wife is a cat lover. I honestly couldn't care less what you do with it afterwards, but let her see it. It'll make us look good."

The two opposite instincts of grinning like a loon and staying serious and focused until he left waged a furious battle on Harry's face for a few seconds. When Vernon started the car, he let the smile win.

"Did you hear that, Mr. Kitty-Cat? You're staying! Well, at least for a while."

Minerva was cheering internally too, but she struggled not to show it: after all, she wasn't supposed to understand the exchange.

"I'll have to think of a proper name for you while I finish. I'm tired of calling you that. I don't even know if you're a 'Mr.' or a 'Mrs.'."

_Oh, so _now_ he's thinking of that? It was about time!_ Minerva instantly chided herself for that reaction. Of course he would be thinking of it late, seeing as the possibility of keeping her, even temporarily, had only become a reality moments before.

He toiled in silence for a while, then he was struck by inspiration: "'Tabby'! You're a tabby cat, and it's fitting for both a boy and a girl, right? Do you like it?"

Minerva meowed appreciatively, wishing there were wizards who could talk to cats as well as snakes.

"I'll take that as a yes." Then, wiping his forehead from sweat – and in doing so, exposing the very thing that made him so special –, he said: "There, I'm done. I'll put the shears back in the shed, don't you disappear on me, okay?"

Something in those words made her paws take on a life of their own and follow him. _I won't disappear on you, Harry_. The boy needed all the reassurance he could get, even if it was in the form of a cat deciding not to run away from him.

He smiled at her. "Smart cat. It's as if you actually understood what I said―" Harry choked a little on those words. "Thank goodness Uncle Vernon's gone to work. If he'd heard me, I would be in for it. Animals can't talk. That's not the way things are supposed to be."

Once again, she had to resort to moving her tail as an outlet for the ever-growing surge of disgust she felt for that sorry excuse of a man. What 'way' was he going on about, and why exactly didn't it include talking animals? She had an awful feeling about this. All her instincts, feline and otherwise, pointed to one solution to that mystery, and it wasn't good: if he scolded himself for thinking of a seemingly irrational event such as a cat being able to understand English, then they must be refusing to tell him about magic. She'd always known that a Muggle family could never help him express his full potential, but she'd foolishly trusted Dumbledore enough not to consider it could be that bad. But wait―if they hadn't told him anything about the wizarding world, how could they possibly have explained Lily and James's deaths, _if_ they had? They couldn't very well tell him the truth, only replacing the Killing Curse with a gun: it wouldn't explain the scar. There were only two options available: they had either filled his head with lies or said nothing at all. Why, why had she vowed to stay in her cat form? She could definitely use her wand hand right now.

"Let's get you inside." He picked her up and made his way towards the house. From this privileged position close to the boy's neck, she could see marks that even an untrained eye could recognise as an attempt to throttle him. What in Merlin's name was going on behind those doors?

Petunia stared at her in a most unpleasant way – or perhaps it was her usual 'welcome' to Harry. Come to think of it, it was probably a combination of the two.

"Uncle Vernon said it's okay," he blurted out on the defensive, as if that settled everything. "If they ask, its name is Tabby. I haven't figured out if it's a boy or a girl yet, so―"

"Enough of your blabbering, boy! I heard you two, I'm not stupid. The cat has to stay for long enough to make Mrs. Carter happy."

Harry nodded and gently deposited her on the floor, looking a bit downcast at the thought that this was just a farce to help his uncle's deal go as expected.

"Well?" Petunia said, as if anxious to get rid of the both of them.

"What?"

"Go make yourself useful! And keep an eye on the cat, we don't want it to run away before the guests arrive."

"What do I have to do?" Merlin's beard, this boy was like a house elf, only with better grammar! Those Muggles really needed to learn a lesson.

"Dudley's room needs tidying. Oh, and by the way, I'll fix dinner just this once, but don't think of it as a treat to _you_. It's important, and I don't trust you with it."

"Come on, I'll take you on a tour of the rest of the house while I'm at it," said Harry, motioning for her to follow him. There was no way a normal cat would have obeyed so promptly: they were more independent than that. Maybe the boy had, on some level, understood that there was something different about this particular specimen.

"If I find out the cat broke any of Diddy's things, you're going to be sorry!"

They didn't have much time to linger in each of the rooms he showed her: he was in such a hurry to start working that he barely told her their names. It was then that she caught her first glimpse of Dudley, who was so engrossed in whatever television programme he was watching that he didn't even notice them go in and out at the speed of lightning. As the tour went on, Minerva found her impressions confirmed: he was definitely treating her at the very least like a creature of near-human intelligence, though how much of it was due to him sensing her magic – at his age and with no training whatsoever, it would have been truly impressive – and how much to his need to talk to someone who didn't sneer in response, she couldn't tell.

As she trotted upstairs beside him, she did not for a moment consider that she would be getting yet another shock from this part of the tour. With hindsight, she should have known better.

"This is Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's room," he explained, his pose clearly spelling out that he was ready to stop her if she even thought of going in. "I'm only allowed in when I have to clean it, so don't get any fur on their things, or it's not going to be pretty." For a fleeting second, she toyed with the idea of rushing in and digging her claws into anything she could reach out of sheer revenge for the matter-of-fact tone in which he spoke of his punishments, but she discovered that deep, calming breaths worked for cats as well as humans.

"This is the guest room. It's only ever used when Aunt Marge comes to stay." He didn't elaborate, but by the sound of his voice 'Aunt Marge' seemed to be just as bad as the rest of them. To her heightened sense of smell, it seemed that a faint trace of the presence of dogs had stubbornly survived several thorough cleanings; she came to the conclusion that the mystery woman owned at least some of them.

"This is Dudley's room―" he peeked inside to assess just how much work was ahead of him, "which apparently really does need tidying, but we'll get back to that later."

There was one last door that could be hiding something of relevance, and he opened it for her. The jumble of all sorts of objects, many of which broken, was unbelievable. Apparently, she'd just found Harry's first bad habit: he was precise when it came to working for others, but terribly disorganized in private. Just as she pondered on that contradiction, he announced: "And this is his _second_ bedroom, where he keeps everything that won't fit into the first."

There were so many things wrong with that one sentence that she didn't know where to begin. Firstly, if Dudley owned so many toys and had so little regard for them, he must have been spoiled rotten, and that in itself wasn't right. Secondly, and more importantly, if this wasn't Harry's room, then where exactly was he supposed to sleep? Mixed with her fury, there was a stab of something that felt like curiosity. For the umpteenth time, she fought back the urge to transform, if only to ask him directly.

On that note, he deemed the tour over and went back to his cousin's room. Minerva was glad of this chance to observe it: the little details of his bedroom could speak volumes about his character. It was as though a miniature hurricane had strewn all his possessions across it: it was a wonder he could find anything in there. From the state he'd left it in, it was obvious that he expected someone else to clean up: in fact, it was so bad that she suspected he had purposefully made the job hard for whoever was in charge of it, and all the evidence suggested that said person was always Harry. Crumbs and empty packages revealed he'd been eating all kinds of junk food; the clothes about the size of a young whale that Harry was rushing to put back in the wardrobe where they were supposed to be seemed to have cost a pretty penny, though she wasn't a good judge of the quality of Muggle items. She didn't know exactly what everything was: her smattering of Muggle Studies could only get her so far. She did notice, however, that the boy had his own television and computer, and that next to it were several untidy stacks of plastic cases containing things that were somehow related to it. She jumped onto his desk to check, barely avoiding making an even worse mess, and guessed by some of the brightly-coloured titles that they were games. The pictures that came with those titles didn't seem suitable for a seven-year-old at all, but quite frankly, with all the terrible mistakes the Dursleys were already making in raising both him and Harry, this made very little difference. There were books in the room as well – a quick look at the covers showed her all the basic subjects he was to learn at whatever Muggle primary school he was attending – but her inner teacher was pained to see that they looked untouched.

"When I'm done here, I'll show you where I sleep too," he said out of the blue, distracting her from what was now a full-fledged inspection. "It's where I'll have to stay tonight so the Carters don't see me. It's too bad they have to see _you_, though. I could have used some company in there other than the spiders. I'd considered giving them names, but they don't make very good pets, do they? Besides, I can't tell them apart in the dark, so that'd be useless."

Minerva had a sudden flash of herself storming downstairs in human form and telling them exactly what was on her mind, possibly punctuating her stream of insults with a well-placed hex or two, but alas, that fantasy wasn't destined to come true anytime soon. He hadn't said exactly what sort of place his room was or where it was, but the words 'dark' and 'spiders' were more than enough to send her over the edge. What were they doing to him? Their horrible behaviour was a problem that someday, somehow, she would have to solve, but once again, it wasn't the practical side of things that hurt the most. What truly broke her heart was his acceptance of the situation. How did he not realise how sick and unfair it was? It was as though a permanent blindfold didn't allow him to see his own life clearly. Didn't he ever wonder why he and his cousin were treated so differently? Had he been the only child in the house, with no one else to compare himself to, it would have made more sense for him to accept the only life he had ever known without complaint, but he had a completely opposite model before his very eyes every day. Why didn't he ever speak up and claim what was due to him? Had they perhaps drilled into him that he wasn't worthy of the same privileges Dudley had? From some hints he had unknowingly dropped, it seemed so, and so Merlin help her, if that one deduction was true, they would have to pay dearly.

Minerva resigned to sit and watch him work. It appeared, from his occasional mumbled comments, that there was a certain way his cousin wanted his things arranged, even though that perfect order would soon turn into utter chaos again, and more than once he found himself wasting time looking for this or that particular item. She decided on the spur of the moment that if she couldn't hurt the Dursleys as much as they had hurt him, she would at least make his work easier. Tidying a room was a much simpler task when you had a companion with a good sense of smell, a keen eye for details and the ability to slink into seemingly impossible corners. It became a sort of game for them: every time Harry complained about the mysterious disappearance of something, not expecting her to raise a paw in response, she would find it and point him in the right direction with a meow. It was the best she could do, and the boy seemed to appreciate it.

"Wow, you really are smart. It's like you always know what I'm looking for. But then again, it's not the first time freaky things have happened around me. It's what I get in trouble for the most." She stared in rapt attention, her ears upright and completely turned towards him: it was the first time he'd openly mentioned magic, even if not by its proper name, and every syllable was important. Moreover, if the 'freaky things' he was talking about were indeed accidental magic, he had just confessed being punished for it. Oh, it was getting worse and worse. "Try to act a bit more normal around them, okay? It'll be our secret." His eyes lit up at that last thought and she let the shadow of a human smile play on her lips at the sight of his excitement, but a new consideration promptly came to sadden her: if what she'd seen so far was any indication, he wasn't happy about having a secret, but rather having someone to share it with. There was a profound difference.

With her sneaking in all the places even his small frame couldn't reach, they were done far before Harry expected. "That's another job done. Come on, I'll show you where I sleep. Speaking of which, I should make you a bed too, just in case they decide to let you stay forever... like that'll ever happen."

She followed him downstairs, more and more puzzled by the second. She was certain they'd seen every room on this floor of the house.

The mystery was solved, in the worst possible way, when Harry stopped abruptly in front of a small door she'd ignored the first time around and opened it, revealing a cupboard under the stairs. "Well, this is it. It's not much, but I'm sure there's room for two, since you're not very big."

Everything she'd felt towards the Dursleys in that short time came rushing back to her multiplied by ten. This – _this_ – was what he called his bedroom? The idea made her sick to the stomach. Sure, there was enough space for him in there, but she dreaded to think what his relatives would do the day he grew out of it, which, considering how small it was, would be coming soon. There was a cot that could hardly be called a bed and very little else: a couple of shelves holding his few possessions tried and failed to make the cupboard look like a proper bedroom, and the rest was taken up by some of the cleaning supplies he was so familiar with and a few cardboard boxes containing unidentified stuff that had to be stored away. An old sign made out of a crumpled piece of paper that had been carefully smoothed out declared it, in a childish scrawl, to be 'Harry's Room'. Upon spotting a large teddy bear abandoned on the bed, she felt a split second of relief at the thought that they at least allowed him the comfort of a toy, but then she saw that it was missing an arm. Harry shut the both of them in, sat on his cot and examined the hole carefully. It was dark, but her feline eyes had no problem adjusting, and she could clearly see that, by the look on his face, he'd closed the door to have some privacy. It was the same worried look that flashed across his features whenever he took a break from work, the one that said: 'I don't want to be caught.'

"I sneaked this from Dudley's second bedroom to see if I could fix it, but I couldn't find the arm. Ah, well, it looks like I've found a better use for it."

He reached for one of the boxes and emptied it: it contained the same schoolbooks she'd seen earlier in his cousin's room.

"I'll find these some other place. This box is now yours." He then proceeded to take the stuffing out of the teddy bear and meticulously use it to create a soft layer on the bottom. "It's not a five-star hotel treatment, Tabby, but you'll have to make do, okay?" Hmm, creative thinking. He'd used common things in a completely unexpected way. There seemed to be a pinch of Ravenclaw in him as well.

Any other cat would have mistaken the makeshift bed for a funny new plaything and destroyed it in a matter of minutes, but she wasn't any other cat. As soon as he put it on the floor, she curled up into it, making a great show of appreciating the gesture. That was definitely something he'd inherited from Lily: just how selfless did he have to be to give up part of what little he had for the benefit of an animal? Minerva found it sincerely touching – not to mention that the box was actually rather comfortable, if one were willing to ignore the bits of stuffing that would surely stick to her fur the moment she got out. She vowed to use it at all times if she succeeded in staying at Number 4 for longer than a day, which was still part of her master plan. There was already more than enough proof for her to go back and tell Albus exactly how big of a mistake he'd made, but she needed to see more, no matter how deeply it disgusted her. Before reporting the case to the authorities, she had to know just how far the Dursleys had gone. She wanted to commit plenty of examples to memory, examples which she would later share with a handful of trusted people through a Pensieve. To be entirely honest, she would have dearly loved to revert to her human form right then and there and take Harry away, but Head of Gryffindor or no, she knew she mustn't act rashly. Where would she take him? How would she keep the whole matter secret to avoid unwanted attention from both the press and Voldemort's old followers? There were too many unanswered questions. It was clear that Harry needed to get out of that hellhole before those horrible Muggles broke him entirely, but organising his great escape was no mean feat.

"Glad you like it," said Harry with a smile, interrupting her plotting. _Glad I made you happy, even if just for a minute._

* * *

The next hours went on slowly, with Harry always busily engaged in some chore or other and Minerva costantly hot on his heels to witness even the smallest sign of abuse. From the unmistakable marks she'd seen on his body, she supposed this, compared to many others, was his lucky day: there were plenty of snide remarks that made her want to attack Petunia until not an inch of her skin remained unscratched, but no one laid a finger on him, mostly because Dudley was too desperately overweight to catch him; his behaviour, however, was evidence that his parents encouraged, or at the very least allowed, acts of bullying towards him. Yet another item to add to her growing list of things that were going terribly wrong.

At about half past seven, Harry was given a meager dinner consisting of an amount of bread and cheese that could in no way sustain him until the next day; to add insult to injury, he had to wolf it down as quickly as possible before the Carters arrived, using the kitchen counter as a table and without even the privilege of sitting down, because every other usable surface was taken up by the many courses of a fancy meal he couldn't even dream of tasting. He had barely swallowed the last mouthful when the doorbell rang. He started as though hit by an unexpected Stinging Hex and dashed to his cupboard. Minerva made to follow him, but remembered that Vernon's client and his wife were supposed to see her: she wished she could keep Harry company, but if staying with him meant earning him a beating as soon as the guests left, she'd much rather make the two unknown Muggles happy. _Showtime._

The evening passed in an insufferable mix of meaningless, hypocritical chitchat and business discussions about some Muggle tool called a drill, to which Minerva only half-listened, all the while trying to look as close as possible to Mrs. Carter's idea of the perfect house cat, even going as far as to sit in her lap, eliciting a shower of worried comments from Petunia about her getting fur on her lovely dress. It was sickening, though she had to admit the woman had a way with animals and her inner cat found her very agreeable. Perhaps she was a better person than her neverending small talk suggested.

And then, finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the exchange of goodbyes began and the Carters were escorted out. A quick look at the sky caused the last inane comments about the weather: while they were enjoying dinner, menacing clouds had gathered, and while that meant some relief from the heat, there was a great deal of polite worrying about the guests not having an umbrella. Come to think of it, Minerva shuddered at the idea of being kicked out and getting soaked to the bone.

When he was entirely sure they were out of earshot, Vernon bellowed: "Boy! You can come out now! They're gone!"

Harry emerged from the cupboard and thought it wise to pretend to be interested: "So, how did it go?"

"It's none of your business. Now, what are we going to do about the cat?"

His eyes opened wide and the question was out before he could stop it: "But I heard you just now. It's going to rain. Can't Tabby stay just for tonight?"

"It's been here long enough already! Get it out!"

Harry sighed in defeat and Minerva saw no other option than to allow him once again to pick her up and take her outside. This time, however, he didn't just leave her on the doorstep. Running as fast as the extra weight would let him, he gently deposited her in the shed.

"At least you won't get wet in here. Sorry I can't bring your box. The floor will have to do, okay?"

She heard a faint: "Took you long enough!", but by the sounds that followed, or rather the lack of them, the result of the meeting had put Vernon in a good enough mood not to hit Harry for the delay. That was something, at least.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Tabby's Here to Stay

_Harry's POV_

As he lay on his cot listening to the muffled sound of the rain outside, Harry was glad he'd had the sense to leave Tabby in the shed, where he – or she – would at least find some shelter. The cat had only been in the house twice, and one of those times had been a mistake, but he was pretty sure that what he felt towards it was a lot like love. It was a big word, 'love': short, but huge at the same time. He was afraid to use it so early. Love, it seemed, was something that had to be earned, and boy, was it hard! He tried with all his might to be good, but if the definition of love was what Dudley had, then he hadn't done enough yet. No one ever smiled at him, no one ever gave him silly nicknames―actually, they hardly used his name at all. He'd much rather be embarrassed by Aunt Petunia's weird terms of endearment than be called 'boy' all the time. In fact, he didn't need any of those nicknames: 'Harry' was enough. He would have liked to be called by his given name a bit more often. Perhaps earning people's love was easier for animals because they were prettier or something, because Tabby had gotten his right away just by existing. Of course, his aunt and uncle were a different story, but then again, it hadn't been so nice to them as it had been to him. There had been no rubbing against their legs that he knew of. It hadn't sat there watching them as if they were very interesting to look at. It didn't seem to understand what they were saying at all. Perhaps that was why he loved Tabby already: it had a way of making him feel different, but in a good way, perhaps even – dare he think that? – special. He didn't speak cat, but somehow he knew that the adorable ball of fur actually liked him. That was a first. No one really liked Harry for some reason: at school, it was mostly because of Dudley, who had scared everyone out of making friends with him. It wasn't that he didn't _try_ to do that thing teachers called 'socializing': the problem was that no one ever had the guts to talk to him first, and if he approached them himself, they would call him a freak and run away. His relatives liked the word 'freak' too, it seemed. At first, he didn't really understand why they used it, but they'd taken to calling him that almost every day lately, and maybe, just maybe, he was starting to see what it was all about. Strange things happened around Harry; not _big_ things, but enough to make them angrier than he'd ever seen them, and that was saying something. He honestly had no idea how or why they happened; in fact, he hadn't immediately realised he was causing them. It was only after a while that he'd understood it was his fault: why else would all those weird events be connected to him?

Perhaps it was because of his freakishness that his aunt and uncle got mad at him so often. The first few times, he'd tried to tell them that it hadn't been him, but Uncle Vernon had just hurt him even worse for lying. When he finally caved and admitted that maybe it _was_ him doing those things, he'd defended himself by saying that he couldn't help it. Even though that was the truth, they'd called him a liar anyway. They'd only very recently started to understand that he couldn't just switch his freakishness off like a light, but all they did was tell him to try harder. And Harry did; he really did try not to make anything strange happen, but he couldn't, no matter how much effort he put into it. It looked like he wasn't trying at all, and that made them furious. He'd been thinking about it a lot lately, and he had his own little theory, though the idea of sharing it with anyone was too scary: maybe trying hard enough wasn't the point. He'd just tried in an entirely wrong way so far: it was no use trying to stop it if he didn't know how. He'd never met any other freaks like him who could tell him exactly what to do to avoid things going the way they shouldn't. But _lessons_ about freakishness? Please. There was no book called _How Not to Be a Freak_, though he would have wanted a copy if it existed. Such a book would have made his life easier.

Tabby was a part of it all: it just knew what he said every single time. He'd been to Mrs. Figg's a lot, though, and he'd never been able to talk to any of her cats like that. They just stared and did nothing if he tried. Maybe cats had their own freaks too, and freaks understood each other. That was a possibility. It was probably also why they didn't want Tabby to stay, unless they were showing it off to guests: they knew it was a freaky cat, and one was more than enough to deal with, let alone two.

In fact, his aunt and uncle didn't want to have to deal with him either. They'd made it very clear from the start. They'd found him after his parents had died in a car crash, and Harry should be grateful for having any place to stay at all. They complained daily about how expensive an extra kid was, so chores were the least he could do to repay them. He'd learnt not to cry much when they hurt him, either, because Uncle Vernon didn't like weak crybabies, so becoming strong could be a way to make him like him more. Maybe. Someday. It hadn't really worked yet. And then there was the cupboard. He still found it a bit odd that Dudley had two bedrooms and he'd had to make the cupboard look as close as he could to one, but the one time he'd dared to ask about it had been one of the worst days of his life, so he'd decided to just shut up and try to believe them when they stressed that his cousin really needed both rooms and that they couldn't be expected to have a proper one for him when he'd been dumped on their doorstep with no warning. 'Shut up' was a good rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys. Not answering was rude and deserved punishment, but most of the time being silent didn't lead to any bruises. In fact, 'shut up' was a perfectly good summary of Rule Number One, 'don't ask questions', and Rule Number Two, 'don't be cheeky'. The first one was the hardest of all to follow, as Harry had thousands of questions about everyone and everything. They'd called him stupid more times than he could count, but he wouldn't stop deserving that word unless he learnt some new things, and how could he do that if he wasn't allowed to ask questions? Not that they'd ever outright ordered him not to: it was more of an unspoken rule. He'd learnt the hard way that too many questions made them angry, and since there was no telling just how many of them were too many, it was wiser not to ask any at all. More than everything else, he wanted to know about his real parents, but all his relatives had ever told him was that they were unemployed drunks who'd gone and gotten themselves killed in that crash, and they had never sounded the least bit sorry when saying that. He didn't think they were lying, exactly – he had no one else to ask, so he couldn't compare what they said to anything – but Aunt Petunia had literally known his mother forever, and she couldn't very well have been a drunk from the age of zero, could she? Why did she never tell him anything about their childhood together? His aunt had been a kid too, though he found it hard to imagine her like that (and he did have imagination. Lots of it. Maybe even too much), but it was as if that period of her life had never existed.

But Harry couldn't ask questions about anything else either; he was used to trying to understand all of his lessons on his own in the little time he had to do his homework, because no one in the house could be expected to sit patiently beside him and explain what wasn't clear. Not that it was a problem, anyway: he understood most of it, but was almost relieved when he didn't, because his cousin's gang would chase him and hit him every time he did anything that made him look smarter than Dudley―which happened pretty often, to be honest, but while Harry knew deep down that it was a good thing, it also meant that he had to run away from Piers and the others a lot. He supposed it was a form of training, at least: he was faster than most of the boys in his class, and would probably be the fastest if only he had longer legs.

All things considered, it had been a nice day: he'd done nothing to deserve punishment, though he had been very afraid of the consequences when he'd asked to let Tabby stay for the night; apparently, his uncle had been happy enough to let him off the hook for once. And it was all thanks to the cat! Tabby had been every bit as smart as he knew it to be and had stayed with the Carters all the time while he waited in his cupboard, and pleased guests meant a good result for Uncle Vernon. And it had helped him before, too: there was no other way to describe the freaky but all in all useful things it had done in Dudley's room. Finding his cousin's belongings more easily than he could was perfectly normal for a cat: it was small, agile and probably used to catching mice or something. But the fact that Tabby knew exactly what to look for... well, that wasn't normal at all. It had been fun, though, and since no one had seen it happen, all he had to do was keep his mouth shut, and a very freaky event would go without punishment. He could hardly remember the last time he'd had fun. Life would have been a lot better with a pet like Tabby in the house: some of his chores would have been quicker, and most of all, he would have someone that resembled a friend. Harry drifted off to sleep with that thought in mind, and probably dreamt of all the nice things he would do with Tabby if he managed to convince them, but remembered none of them in the morning.

* * *

Over the course of the next few days, Harry began to think that if they didn't want it to stay, his relatives had been very wrong in letting Tabby in at all: its new mission in life was to annoy them until they surrendered. It would meow in front of the door as though it had every right in the world to come in, it would slink inside the moment anyone left the door open for too long, it would go through any window that was low enough for it to jump. That wasn't good at all for Harry at first, because _of course_ it had to be his idea, and he had bruises to match their anger; after a while, though, it was as if they'd gotten tired of always hurting him for the same reason. Or maybe they'd just realised that it couldn't be his fault every single time. All they did was make him interrupt whatever chore he was doing, pick Tabby up and leave it outside, but it was all in vain. The cat kept coming back, just like the one in that children's song, except that it wasn't yellow. Harry didn't know exactly why it was doing that, but he had a couple of ideas: one, that made a lot more sense, was that Tabby now considered it its house; the other, that it was doing it for _him_. Surely it couldn't be so, but Harry simply loved that thought. He also wished they would give up already and take Tabby in for good, if it wanted to be their pet so badly, but they seemed to have no intention of doing that―probably because they knew it would make him happy, and he didn't deserve any more happiness than the little bits he already had, however small. He'd learnt to make the most of even the tiniest scrap of happiness he could get, and Tabby had already given him much more than usual. If he could get them to let it stay, he would have so much he'd probably burst. Harry knew it would never happen, but at the same time he couldn't stop himself from acting as though the decision to make Tabby theirs were imminent. Any piece of information on how to take care of a cat was welcome.

That was why he had to use an acting talent he didn't even know he had in order not to look too happy when Aunt Petunia announced out of the blue: "Make yourself presentable, boy, you're going to Mrs. Figg's." Then she explained that she was going to visit her friend Yvonne while Dudley spent the day with his gang, but Harry wasn't really paying much attention. Mrs. Figg knew literally everything about cats, and she would be very happy to find him so interested in them, too. He'd always found her pictures boring, but this time it would be different.

"I'm sorry for dropping him off on such short notice, but you know... kids... I trust he'll be in good hands with you."

"It's no problem at all, Mrs. Dursley. Come inside, Harry, I'm sure we have a lot to talk about." Huh, weird. How did she know he was itching to ask her for a full lesson about living with a cat? Maybe she didn't really have anything to say to him, and that had been just one of those polite lies grown-ups always told.

"So, Harry... how are you?" She would always begin the conversation like that. It was a nice thing to say―she sounded like she cared. No one ever did, though, so Harry preferred a short, standard answer, even if most of the time it wasn't the truth.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Figg, thank you. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something."

"I'm all ears, sweetie." Harry very nearly gasped. Had she seriously just called him 'sweetie'? His head was reeling. This was his lucky day!

"There's a cat that keeps trying to get into the house. I don't think my aunt and uncle want it as a pet, but if they ever change their minds, may I come to you for advice? I-I mean, with all the cats you have, surely you'll know how to keep one, right?" That was one of the longest speeches he'd ever had in front of an adult that hadn't been interrupted, punished or both. Mrs. Figg was very nice when she wanted to, if you ignored the endless photo albums and the smell of cabbage. Not that he would ever really need to ask for help, since they weren't going to get a pet anytime soon, let alone that particular cat. Maybe if it was Dudley who asked, they would say yes to avoid one of his unforgettable tantrums, but when would they ever listen to him? _Hey, wait just one second..._ The plan was already mostly formed. He would just have to take care of a few details later.

"Is it a tabby cat?" she asked with a half-smile that seemed to mean 'I know something that you don't.'

"How did you know?" Harry asked, wide-eyed.

"Oh, I've seen one around the neighbourhood a couple of times lately, so I took a wild guess. It looks like I was right."

"Yes, well, first things first. How can you tell if it's a boy or a girl?" Wow, asking questions was really fun when you weren't scared.

"I could explain it to you, or I could just tell you that if we're talking about the same cat, I'm pretty sure it's a girl."

"Really?" To be honest, Harry thought there was no way she could know that without looking at Tabby very closely, but maybe there were little tricks to tell at first sight that only cat ladies and maybe vets knew about. "Thanks a lot, that's nice to know."

"Don't mention it."

The pile of photo albums lay forgotten for once, and the rest of the afternoon flew by too fast. Before he knew it, Aunt Petunia was back to get him and they were exchanging goodbyes.

"What are you smiling at, boy?"

"Nothing, really."

"I'll pretend I believe you for now..."

* * *

Tabby obviously showed up the next day. It would have been strange for it – no, wait, _her_, if Mrs. Figg was right – not to. Harry was working in the garden again; he'd sort of taken a liking to that, because it was the only time when he could talk to Tabby safely instead of shooing her away.

"Hey, nice to see you again. I talked to Mrs. Figg about you, you know? She's seen you around, and she thinks you're a girl. I'm just going to take her word for it, okay? After all, she's the expert." Tabby meowed, and Harry really wished he could translate. He thought she'd sounded happy, as if she liked what he'd just said, but he wasn't sure. Since it was pretty clear by now that she understood, if not everything, at least more than the average cat did, maybe making her meows 'sound happy', if there even was such a thing, was her way to say yes. Okay, then. Tabby was officially a girl. That was progress, right?

Harry kept working, occasionally checking if she was still there. He liked having her around, even when she did nothing much. Just feeling her stare on the back of his neck was already a relief. Somehow, for some reason, it was as though she was supporting him. He could almost hear a little voice saying: 'Come on, Harry, you can do it!' He supposed imagining Tabby talking to him was easier now that he knew for sure he had to picture a female voice. The Dursleys didn't approve of imagination, but they couldn't read his mind either, so daydreaming was the only infraction that always went unnoticed, unless it distracted him too much.

"I have a plan, you know?" he boasted. "Maybe there's a way to make you stay forever. I'm not sure it's going to work, though." For a second, he thought Tabby actually _smiled_ at him, but it must have been a trick of the light. Cats didn't smile the same way humans did, did they?

Harry was almost sorry when he finished. He would have liked to stay outside for a little while. Of course, he could always leave the door open just a few moments too long on purpose...

He winked at Tabby when he opened it and she took the hint. Wow, she really was the smartest cat he'd ever seen.

"Hey, freak!" Harry met Dudley's gaze. It would have been nice not to respond at all, as if he refused to admit he was a freak, but he decided that this time he'd rather be humiliated than punched. Both things hurt a lot, in different ways, but he could take emotional pain with Tabby there to keep him in a good mood. Physical pain, instead, couldn't go away just because there was a cat beside him, so it was an easy choice.

"What?"

"You let the cat in again. I'm going to tell Mum!"

"I'll do your Maths homework as well as mine if you don't tell her. In fact, I'll make you a deal: I'll do _all_ of your summer assignments if you ask Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia to let Tabby stay, and I mean forever. As our pet." There, he'd said it. He hoped with every fibre of his being it would be enough.

"You do know that I'd convince someone else anyway, right?" If 'convincing' people meant 'punching them until they agreed', then he had a good point. Dudley hardly ever did his homework, mostly because everyone was more than ready to put their knowledge at his service.

"Yeah, well, this year you won't have to. I know what the teachers say about you." Harry took a deep breath. He'd never had the nerve to face Dudley like that before. "They say that what you're doing is called 'bullying'. You've gotten away with it so far, but I think that someday, somehow, you're going to get in trouble. If you ask them to keep Tabby, I'll actually _want_ to do your homework for once. You won't have to hit anyone for it. Come on, one little request in exchange for a whole summer with nothing to think about? Please?"

"I wouldn't have to take care of it, would I?"

"If they ever ask you to, I'll do it for you and they'll never know. I promise." _Yeah, right. When was the last time they've asked him to do anything?_

"That's good, 'cause Gordon got a pet a while ago and his parents would never stop talking about how he had to be responsible and all..." For about half a second, Harry thought that 'responsible' was a pretty difficult word for his cousin's standards, but to be honest, he didn't care if his vocabulary had improved at the moment.

"Oh, no, no, no. You won't even notice her unless she's exactly where you want to sit. By the way, if that happens, it would be nice not to squash her, okay?"

"Will you sneak food for me when I ask you to?"

That last condition was a bit much. If Harry were caught stealing from the fridge, the consequences would be very, very bad. But on the other hand, he really wanted Tabby there. If he said no, he would have fewer chances to be punished, but Dudley wouldn't ask them; if he said yes, he would put himself in danger, but at least he would have someone by his side who wouldn't laugh or yell at him if they ended up hurting him so much he cried himself to sleep in his cupboard. Biting his lip in thought, he put his fears aside and finally said: "Okay. But you're going to ask them tonight."

"Why?"

"How else would I know you're going to hold up your end of the deal?"

"Tonight it is, then. But I won't have to open a single book all summer, right?"

"_And_ you'll be able to eat as much as you like, whenever you like. All this in exchange for Tabby."

"What if they say no? Will you still do all that stuff for me?"

"Trust me, they'll never say no." Harry had never heard them deny Dudley anything his whole life. Why would this time be any different?

* * *

Time had the odd habit of running whenever you wanted it to go slower, and deciding to have a nice, long, relaxing stroll whenever you needed it to be faster. In fact, as Harry watched the minutes that separated him from dinner tick by, each of them felt like an hour, especially since he'd had to take Tabby outside again. He'd been particularly sorry to do it: he would have loved for her to wait with him. But eventually, the call that gathered the whole family around the table came – he wasn't allowed to sit with them, but then again, he didn't really count as family – and all he had to do was wait a little longer until Dudley decided to keep his promise. Oh, dear. The words 'Dudley' and 'promise' in the same sentence didn't sound good at all. He'd been stupid in thinking he would keep his word, hadn't he? While serving dinner – and wishing he could keep the grumbling of his stomach in check at the sight of the content of their plates – Harry was so busy cursing himself for his mistake and listening for even the smallest mention of Tabby in the conversation that he nearly earned himself the worst night he could imagine. But he didn't, unless his uncle was playing with him, saying he would have mercy just to make him relax a little and then hurting him anyway just when he believed he wouldn't. Harry wouldn't have put it past him.

Either Dudley enjoyed making him wait, or he thought his parents would be in a better mood on a full stomach, because it wasn't until the very end of the meal that he finally interrupted the flow of chitchat: "Mum, Dad, I wanted to ask you something."

Two half-worried, half-curious answers came at the same time: "What is it, son?", and "Sure, sweetums, ask away!"

"Well, I was thinking..." Harry was surprised Dudley could think at all, but hastily bit his lip to stop himself from laughing at the witty remark he couldn't dream to make and listened eagerly, "that cat really looks like it wants to stay, doesn't it? Why don't we just keep it and get it over with?"

The way they gaped at him with their mouths open as if he'd just grown a second head was almost comical.

"W-well, honey, if it's a cat you want, then we'll get you one as soon as you can. Won't we, Vernon? Have you already thought about what breed you want? A Siamese? A Persian, maybe?"

He let out a booming laugh. "Never in a million years I would have pegged my son as a cat person, but it's your choice. We'll buy you one the first chance we get, but... why the change of heart? You didn't seem to like that fleabag we took in to make the Carters happy."

"Have you listened to a word I said?" he screamed, now in full tantrum mode. "I don't want just any cat." He scrunched up his face, getting ready to wail loud enough to shake the entire house. "I want _that_ cat!"

They sighed in unison, looked at each other and nodded in defeat. "Okay, Diddy, we'll do what we can, but maybe it's gone away. What will you do, then? Shall we get you another cat if we can't find just the one you want?"

"It's not gone. And, Dad? It doesn't have fleas either."

"If you're sure, then..." She turned to Harry, changing her tone entirely. "Boy, get outside and find it. It should still be around here."

Harry ran to the garden, trying with all his might not to look like he was literally jumping around in joy. True to Dudley's word, he didn't have to look very far to find Tabby. "I did it! It worked! They've _actually_ asked me to bring you in!" He scooped her up and was back in the house in no time.

As Dudley attempted to look happy – he really wasn't much of an actor, but to his parents' eyes, his performances were always Oscar-worthy – Uncle Vernon stared straight at Harry in a way that he didn't like one bit.

"Very well. It looks like we now own a cat. Do you have _any_ idea how much that's going to cost?"

Harry gulped. "No, sir."

"Hmph. Too stupid to do the math. Typical. Well, boy, know this: the cat can stay, but every penny you make us spend on it will be subtracted from your food! Then maybe you'll realise just how expensive it is."

"But―" How was that possible? How did they know it hadn't been Dudley's idea? They hadn't been there when they'd made the deal!

"No buts! It was Dudley who asked for it, but it was you who let it in in the first place and it's you it always follows around! It's obvious that it has a mind to be _your_ cat. It will be your responsibility, and yours only!"

As if on cue, Harry's stomach growled. It would be hard, but with a new friend around, it would also be worth it.

* * *

Life with Tabby turned out to be exactly as Harry had imagined it: while he always had a lot of work ahead of him, he was also thrilled at the prospect of not being completely alone as he did it. He didn't need much, really: just the fact that she was there put a whole new spring in his step. Not that there weren't any worries, though: adding cat food to the shopping list also meant that he was hungrier than ever. Once, he even whispered to Tabby: "You look like you're in good shape for now, but you'd better stay healthy, okay? I don't even want to think about what they'll do if they have to pay for a vet."

And then there was the small matter of Dudley's homework and extra snacks. Oddly enough, he hadn't asked for any of those yet, which made Harry hope he'd forgotten about that part of the deal; but how on earth was he supposed to do all of his assignments when cleaning, cooking and everything else already consumed so much of his time?

A partial solution to that huge problem came on its own, though. It was after the second sleepless night he'd spent doing his cousin's exercises with the aid of a torch that freaky things started happening again, and they were greater than they'd ever been before. The to-do list for the day seemed miles and miles long to his tired eyes, but soon after he'd started working he realised to his amazement that apparently he'd already done some of the chores without even remembering it. It was unbelievable: clothes he had no idea he'd touched were neatly folded and stored away, surfaces that he was sure needed dusting were shiny, and what mattered most, no one but him noticed anything wrong. The Dursleys just believed that he was working really fast, but the truth was that – he allowed himself to think that with a thrill of excitement – he appeared to be in two places at once. He managed to check every item of that endless list so quickly that he even had the luxury to do some of the homework he'd promised sitting at the table and taking his time not only to think about the correct solutions, but also to wonder how exactly it had happened. If only the answer to that were as definite as 'two plus two makes four'...

This new freaky routine continued, and Harry began to form his own idea as to what was going on. It was insane and he would no doubt be as good as dead if they ever found out, but he didn't know what else to think. He'd done strange things before, but none of them had been so big, and they hadn't happened so often either. There was only one possibility: _it was Tabby_. She didn't have hands to do chores in his place, but who else could it be? Surely there weren't two Harrys around the house! He'd come to that realisation slowly, but as time passed, the thought began to make more and more sense. Tabby had taken to disappearing every once in a while: she still spent a lot of time with him and always made him smile by meowing at him first thing in the morning or chasing a little toy he'd made her with a spare piece of string and an old bottle cork, but she seemed to have better things to do than just sit there and watch him work; and surely enough, every single time Harry looked behind him and saw that she wasn't there anymore, he knew he would find a chore done even though he'd been working on another. Once or twice, he could have sworn he'd caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he stopped to see what it was, everything was still again.

Aside from the grumbling complaints of his stomach, life was pretty much perfect: he had less work than usual to do, but his relatives believed he actually did more, so he went for an incredibly long time without punishments. All his most recent bruises had healed completely and he hadn't done anything to deserve new ones yet; sometimes, he even found himself with some real free time; but most of all, he had someone to talk to. Tabby couldn't answer, at least not in a way he could understand, but she didn't get angry at him for saying anything he wanted freely, she didn't laugh at his fears and she never left his side when he cried. She allowed his tears to wet her fur without running away, and a few times, when he lay on his cot, he knew that her rubbing against his face instead of his legs wasn't just an act of friendship, as Mrs. Figg had said, but a way to dry them. And then there was The Look, with a capital L. Only Tabby's eyes could possibly tell him: 'I don't speak your language, Harry, but I understand you. You know I do.'


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – A New Acquaintance... Or Not?

_Harry's POV_

As it turned out, Harry's hopes that Dudley had forgotten half of their deal had been in vain. That was to be expected, though: his brain might miss a beat every now and then, but his stomach never forgot anything.

"Hey, freak! Get me some of that ice-cream, and make it quick!"

Ice-cream. He'd already gotten him crisps and cookies safely more than once, so why not ice-cream? He'd even seen Aunt Petunia put it back, so he wouldn't have to waste precious seconds looking for it. He passed by the kitchen, pretending to be busy, and had a peek inside: the coast seemed to be clear.

He counted the steps that separated him from the fridge, his heart beating faster and faster. Now all he had to do was open that door, grab the requested food and make a run for it. He'd think of the spoon later. He reached out a hand. Almost done...

"What do you think you're doing?" Harry spun on his heel so fast that the whole world seemed to wobble a bit around him. Oh, no. That was it. He'd been caught red-handed, and that pretty much meant he was done for, unless Uncle Vernon was feeling merciful, which, judging by the dangerous tone of purple that was quickly spreading on his face, he wasn't.

"I-I... I was just―" An insane part of him considered telling him the truth, that he was getting food for Dudley and not himself, but the chances of his uncle actually believing him looked very, very slim.

"What? Stealing our food? Don't deny it, boy! I already suspected you, but this is proof! Now... do you know what it means?"

"It... it means I've been bad, sir."

"Just what I wanted to hear. And do you know what bad boys deserve?"

"T-They deserve punishment, sir."

Now Harry was entirely sure he was in for it. That little show they'd just done – those words they'd both learnt by heart – were his favourite way to start one of those punishments he'd never forget.

"Take off your shirt."

A vague sense of nausea welled up in his chest as he obeyed. He had the awful feeling this would be the worst one he'd had in a while. His instinct were telling him to run, but where would he run to anyway? He offered his bare back and shut his eyes tightly, listening to the sounds that always preceded the pain. The belt whipped the air first, as if to warn him. A sudden hiss made him vaguely aware that Tabby was there. She'd never really hissed like that: she'd been angry, but never to the point of doing that.

Harry waited for the first hit. He waited and waited, but the burning pain never came. Instead, a female voice he'd never heard before shook the entire room: "Don't you dare touch him, you sorry excuse of a Muggle!"

Uncle Vernon started stuttering incoherently: "But―but―who―what―" Those were likely the beginnings of the same thousands of questions Harry himself wanted to ask, such as 'Who are you?' and 'What are you doing here?', but he seemed unable to finish a sentence. He was very curious as to what was going on and wanted nothing more than to open his eyes and find out, but if the scene scared his uncle, he would probably die of fright the moment he saw it, so he kept them safely closed.

Then the unknown woman said another funny word, and two more strange things happened in quick succession: first, the colours behind his eyelids changed for an instant, as if for a bright light, and second, there was a heavy _thud_ that sounded exactly as though Uncle Vernon had just fallen to the floor.

The quick patter of two pairs of feet and a shrill: "What's happening?" alerted him to the presence of Aunt Petunia and Dudley, but the stranger just repeated that odd word twice more, and the flashes and sounds that followed suggested that they had fallen too. It was as if that word was causing it all, but how could anyone make people drop to the floor like that just by stringing together a handful of letters?

"Harry?" His heart missed a beat. Was she going to do that to him too? It sounded like it hurt, maybe even more than his uncle's beatings. He knew he was getting into even more trouble, but he didn't open his eyes, even though that would have probably been the polite thing to do, since she'd called him. By the way, how did she know his name when he had no idea who she was?

"Harry, please, at least open your eyes."

He didn't know exactly what it was that made some of his fear melt away―the fact that she didn't seem to be half as angry at him as she had been at his uncle, that she'd used his proper name twice in a matter of seconds or that she'd actually said 'please'. Still, he did as she said, and found himself gaping at her open-mouthed, with only a tiny fraction of his mind telling him it wasn't very nice of him.

She was... well, she was a mile away from the sort of person his relatives would have welcomed into their house. She looked pretty old, but her posture was nothing like that of other old people he'd seen. She was wearing green from head to toe, but those clothes weren't normal at all. They seemed to have come straight out of a film―not that he'd ever watched any, but he'd caught bits and pieces, and sometimes the characters dressed like that when the story took place a few centuries before. If she really _had_ come out of the TV screen or something (and quite frankly, with all the weird things that had already happened in the past few minutes, nothing was impossible), though, she clearly belonged in the kind of film they were the least likely to allow him to watch, because that thing on her head was no less than a witch's hat, just like the ones he'd seen in a couple of children's books before they could snatch them away from him, muttering something about them having a bad influence on kids.

Then Harry remembered to close his mouth and was hit by two realisations at once: first, all three of his relatives were sprawled on the floor and, as far as he could tell, looked like they'd fainted. Second, the woman was holding a sort of stick.

All of his fear came back in full force. Was she going to hit him with it? That was a new form of punishment. What was going on? Had his uncle called someone else who could punish him in his place? Did he think his methods weren't enough? But then, why would she have knocked him unconscious? Surely he would have wanted to watch, to see if she was doing it properly.

"Please, don't hurt me..." he said in a much smaller voice than he would have liked. "Please." He kept his eyes more on the stick than on her as he talked.

"Hurt you? But I―" She stopped and gasped slightly, as if suddenly understanding something. "You mean with this? No, Harry. I promise that I will never, ever use it to hurt _you_. I'm afraid I can't say the same for them, though." As if to reinforce her words, she put it away; he briefly saw that she had something under her sleeve that was probably designed to keep it. A part of Harry really wanted to believe her, but experience told him that grown-ups never kept their word, unless they were promising to punish him.

"Are they hurt?"

"They're out cold, but they'll be fine."

"Don't do the same to me, please."

"I've already told you I won't. I realise that you don't know me," here she paused and smiled for some reason, "and that asking you to trust me is a lot, but Harry, why would I stop him from hurting you only to harm you myself?"

Was that a trick question? It had to be some sort of test, so Harry thought hard, if only to prove to her that he wasn't as stupid as they always said, but none of the answers that came to his mind seemed to make much sense.

"I think I believe you." Harry felt as if a huge weight had just been taken off his chest, but many more of them were still there. There were hundreds of things he would have loved to ask her, but what if she didn't like questions? It was probably wiser to talk to her only when spoken to.

"Put your shirt back on, Harry. No one's going to hurt you anymore."

_Does that mean just for tonight or forever?_ Those words were just about to come out of his mouth without his permission, but he forced them back down.

As he fumbled with his shirt, she added: "Just so you know... if there's anything you want to ask me, just do it."

His jaw almost dropped again. Was he really allowed to do that?

Now fully clothed again, Harry decided to start from the basics: "Um... I don't mean to be rude, but... who are you, exactly?"

"Of course, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Professor McGonagall, but you may call me Minerva if you'd like."

Harry was in awe. _Professor?_ Whoa―not only she could somehow stop Uncle Vernon from hitting him, but she was also a very important person. He suddenly felt very small.

"Also, how did you get here? I didn't hear you come in, you were just... there all of a sudden."

"Ah, well, that might be a little more complicated to explain." She paused again, frowning, as if looking for the right words to say. "Harry... those things you do, 'freaky things', I believe you call them... I can do them too, you know?"

That handful of words contained enough shocking news to knock him unconscious too. That woman, Minerva, not only knew he was a freak, but had just admitted to being one herself, and―wait. She sounded like she was perfectly okay with it. That was probably the strangest thing of all.

"So... so you just found yourself here?" That had happened to him once, only he hadn't been so lucky as to land neatly and silently in a room. No, his destination had been the roof of the school kitchen, and he'd screamed too, but more out of surprise than fear. There were things that Harry was afraid of, of course, but heights were not one of them. To be fair, he kind of liked them.

"Not exactly, Harry. I've been here for quite a while, actually."

"How come I've never seen you?"

"You have, only I didn't look like this. You may know me as Tabby."

"But―but―how is that possible?"

"Magic. That's the proper name for your 'freaky things'."

Okay, _now_ he'd definitely had too many shocks in a row. Magic? The place for magic was in fairy tales, and that was where it was supposed to stay! Admittedly, he didn't really want it to stay there, but still, why was she talking about it as though it were normal? And when she said that she and Tabby were one and the same, did she really mean it?

"I know this is a lot to handle, but it's the truth. You are _not_ a freak, Harry. In fact, I'll be very pleased with you if you never, ever use that word again. The correct term is 'wizard'."

Perhaps it was the prospect of someone so important being actually pleased with him that gave him courage, because somehow he managed to say: "I'm... I'm a _wizard_?" Oh, how that word rolled off his tongue. It was a thousand times better than 'freak'. They meant pretty much the same thing, but 'wizard' didn't sound like something awful, something that wasn't supposed to be. Sure, it was something he'd always believed to be fictional, but at least it didn't have a bad ring to it.

"Exactly. You're a wizard, and I'm a witch."

Harry couldn't help it. He snorted. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I wasn't laughing at you, I swear! It just... doesn't seem like a very nice thing to say to a woman."

"You'll get used to it. It's neither a compliment nor an insult, really. It's just a fact."

"So... being a f―er, I mean, a wizard, isn't a bad thing?"

"No, not at all! You see, Harry, magic isn't good or bad in itself. There are good wizards and bad wizards in this world, but it doesn't depend on magic, just on how it is used."

"You must be a very good witch, then. You know, because of... that." He pointed in the vague direction of the three unconscious forms.

"Thank you. _That_ I can definitely take as a compliment."

"May I ask you just one more thing, Professor?"

"Sure, Harry."

"What you said about Tabby... what did you mean by it? Could you maybe show me?"

Considering that he'd only _heard_ her say those words, he'd technically never seen any magic before―well, except for his own, and even then, his first instinct had been to hide it. It still felt like a bit of a contradiction to be talking about it so openly; blimey, it was strange to have someone who would listen in the first place. He half-expected one of them to wake up and punish him for it. This time, however, his eyes were wide open. She was like him, she really was, and maybe she could help him stop it or something. She definitely sounded like an expert.

"Of course. Watch."

It was as though someone had pressed the 'fast forward' button on an invisible remote control. She seemed to shrink and deform right then and there, and in the space of the blink of an eye, Professor McGonagall was gone and Tabby was standing in her place. She allowed herself a meow, of the happy-sounding kind that had greeted him every morning since the deal with his cousin, and then turned back. She didn't even have to put her hat straight.

"Whoa."

"That's what most of my students say. It's a way like any other to make a good impression on the first day of class."

"Wait, so you let your students know you're a―" Harry caught himself just in time, "witch?"

"How could I not? I left something out when I introduced myself. I didn't lie to you in saying I'm a professor, Harry, but I'm not exactly the kind of teacher you might be used to. I work at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry knew the feeling of being punched in the gut all too well, and this left him just as breathless as that. Not only Professor McGonagall was a witch, but there were enough people like them in the world to fill a whole school? And―wait just one second. Why would anyone want to teach them to get even _better_ at doing all those strange things? The fewer he did, the happier his relatives were, right?

"There's a school of magic?"

"More than one, to be exact, but yes. In fact, we expect you to come to Hogwarts in a few years' time. Not that we're forcing you, but we just so happen to be the most renowned school in Europe, so... what do you say to that?"

"Me? I'm... I'm sorry, but I think you have the wrong person. Maybe you confused me with somebody else. I'm not..." Harry paused. How could he put it in words? He wanted to tell her that he probably wasn't smart enough to attend what she'd called 'the most renowned school in Europe', but the rest of the sentence died on his lips.

"Not what?"

"I'm not good enough."

"'Not good enough', eh? And would you mind telling me exactly what makes you think that?"

Harry eyed the three unconscious figures on the floor, but for the second time, the words he'd meant to say took on a life of their own and refused to come out of his mouth.

She followed his gaze and said: "Excuse me, Harry, but I really don't believe _they_ are in the best position to tell you how good or bad you are, either as a person or at something that is completely foreign to them such as magic."

"But I'm not even that good at my normal school! Even if I do come with you, I bet I'll be the worst in my class."

"Oh, Harry, _please_. Have you already forgotten that I watched you do homework, even if it wasn't yours? Quite frankly, I don't think you could have written half of those answers if you really were stupid, and I'm saying this as a teacher, not as your loyal house cat."

Harry blushed violently. It was the first real compliment he could remember getting, so he wasn't exactly sure how to answer to that. Would a simple 'Thank you' be enough? Besides, there was a bigger problem at hand.

"I'm... I'm sorry for treating you like a cat all this time. It must have been embarrassing for you."

"I didn't mind. How else could I get to know you?"

"Um... I know I've practically done nothing but ask questions, but... why did you want to get to know me anyway?"

"That, Harry, is a very long story. One that I promise I'll tell you, but we can't risk them waking up. I think it's going to take a while, but still, better safe than sorry. This is not the place to discuss it."

"Where are we going, then?"

"To Mrs. Figg's, for now. And then, if you'd like, I can take you to see Hogwarts."

"That would be great!" Harry had heard his share of stories about what happened to kids who trusted strangers to take them to unknown places, but he couldn't exactly think of her as a stranger anymore, and besides, if the place in question was a school of magic that was probably packed with people who could understand him as well as she did, he couldn't wait to get there.

"It's settled, then. But first..."

She pulled out that strange stick of hers again – Harry made a mental note to ask about it as soon as he could – and bent over Uncle Vernon. He made it a point to listen carefully this time.

"_Obliviate_." Okay, he still couldn't get it to make sense, but maybe he would learn what it meant someday.

"What did you do to him? He doesn't look any different."

"On the outside, he doesn't. But he won't remember ever seeing me in human form."

Harry stared as she did the same to the other two. Could magic really do that? Whoa. He distinctly felt as though he'd learnt so many things in so little time that they couldn't all fit into his head. Then he had another thought, one so big and so insane that it made even some of his amazement fade away. If she could make them forget they'd ever seen her, could she also make them forget that they hated him so much?

"Professor? I was thinking... well, it's a bit much to ask, but―"

"Harry, whatever they told you, asking questions isn't a bad thing. Just spill, and I'll be the one to tell if it is or it isn't too much."

"Could you... could you please make sure they don't hurt me again?"

"That would be very difficult to do." Oh, no! He knew he'd pushed it too far. She'd already stopped him once, and he should have been content with what he had. What would she do now? Would she think he was ungrateful too? "Instead, I can make sure they never _see _you again. Unless you'd like to stay, of course..."

"How... how can you do that? More magic?"

"Hmm, yes and no. You see, I know the person who decided you should be here in the first place. Once he sees you, I'm sure he will realise just how wrong he was and find you some other home. And quite honestly, if he doesn't change his mind, I'll make him. Let's get going, shall we?"

"Okay. Hey, wait a second, if you and Mrs. Figg know each other, that's how she knew that―" Harry stopped abruptly again, his face burning with shame at the thought of all the silly things he'd said to her when she was his pet.

"That I was a female cat? Exactly. Now, there's no need to be embarrassed. How could you have known?"

"Are you sure you're not mad at me?"

"For something you couldn't help? I don't think so."

"I've been in trouble for things I couldn't help before," said Harry sadly. He still couldn't shake off the feeling that complaining about his relatives wasn't the best possible move―after all, they'd given him a place to stay. The professor didn't seem to like them, though, so he hoped he was free to say anything he wanted in front of her.

"Well, that's all in the past now. Pack anything you may want to take with you and let's get out of here."

"Forever?"

"Yes, Harry. Forever."

"Then I guess I'll get my books and my clothes. There's not much else, really. I won't take long."

"Harry, whoever we'll get to complete your education probably won't want to use the same books you've studied on so far, and as for your clothes, did you really think I'd let you wear those? They're at least four sizes too big for you!"

"It's always been like this. I've never had any clothes of my own, just some of Dudley's old things. They said I didn't deserve them."

"That's ridiculous! In fact, I think I've just had a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself. What's your favourite colour?"

Harry had already done the math. If she was asking him that, then hopefully it meant she would make him some new clothes with magic. The problem was that he'd never really thought about what colour he liked best: he just wore whatever they gave him and didn't care about what he looked like... much. How was he supposed to know what looked best on him? There were people who worried about such things – especially girls, as far as he could tell –, but he wasn't one of them.

Then it clicked. How many times had he stared at his reflection in the mirror, wondering if he looked anything like his parents, wishing for a picture of them to compare his face to?

"Green. My favourite colour is green." Besides, she seemed to like it too, right?

"Wonderful. It matches your eyes. I don't expect they've ever told you, but you have exactly your mother's eyes."

"I-I do? Wow, I never knew..."

Rage flickered across her face and Harry found himself shrinking back from the thin line of her lips.

"Horrible Muggles, I swear I'll... I'll..."

"Is that a bad word? You called Uncle Vernon that before, but I don't know what it means." He hated admitting he didn't know something in front of an adult―they would usually call him stupid for that. Instead, Professor McGonagall just smiled.

"No, it's just our term for a non-magical person. Now, about your clothes..."

She seemed to size him up, then started waving her stick – come to think of it, from what little he'd heard about magic when the Dursleys weren't around, it was probably a wand or something, and Harry made a mental note to remember that to avoid embarrassing himself even further – and he distinctly felt his enormous T-shirt tightening around his body until it fit perfectly. It changed colour too: it was green, just like she'd promised. The rest of his clothes shrank as well; they didn't look very different, but they were now his size, and more importantly, they were as good as new.

Harry remembered a story he'd heard. They'd never read him any fairy tales, but all the other kids at school knew about it, so somehow he'd pieced the plot together. He was slowly coming to the conclusion that maybe Professor McGonagall was to him what her Fairy Godmother had been to Cinderella: she'd appeared all of a sudden, she was giving him the chance to get away from a life made mostly of chores _and_ she'd given him new clothes to wear. Now he only had to hope it wouldn't all end by midnight.

"Thank you."

"Do you like them?"

"Are you kidding? I love them!"

"Glad to hear that. It's actually my specialty, you know? Turning something into something else. It's called Transfiguration, and it's what I teach."

"I'll remember that." It was a big word, but Harry decided that he liked it. If that was what Transfiguration could do, then he would do his best when the day came for him to learn it. Wait a minute, was he really _excited_ to do that? It couldn't be right, could it? He'd thought it was a bad thing until she came and reversed everything in a handful of minutes!

"Good. Now that you're all set―oh, wait, you're not." She crouched so that their faces were on the same level and pointed her wand straight at him. Harry gasped and backed away from it, but her smile encouraged him to step forward again. The tip was so close that he had to go cross-eyed to look at it. "_Reparo_."

The layers upon layers of sellotape that held the nosepiece of his glasses together vanished. For a split second, Harry was afraid they would fall apart, but then realised there was no need for it anymore. It was as if they had never been broken.

"_Now_ you're ready. Come on, I've made you wait long enough." She made towards the front door.

"Um... Professor, your clothes..."

"Oh. You're not the first to tell me. I'm no expert in Muggle fashion, to be honest. It'll be quicker if I just go as Tabby, which suits me just fine, by the way. I'd never really considered giving my cat form a name of her own. Do you mind if I stick with it?"

And with that, she transformed again. Harry wasn't even startled this time. Was it possible that he was already getting used to magic?

They simply walked to Mrs. Figg's side by side in the same sort of companionable silence they'd shared so many times recently. Harry rang the doorbell and waited for her to answer.

"Harry! What brings you here at this hour, and alone on top of that?"

"I'm not alone, Mrs. Figg. In fact, I don't think I'm ever going to be alone again."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 – Welcome to Hogwarts

_Minerva's POV_

Minerva thanked Merlin, Morgana and every other great wizard out there for being in cat form. If she'd had the body language and facial expressions of a human when Harry answered, it would have been the end of the tough image of herself she'd always given the rest of the world.

It was, however, at least a sign that she'd done something right: she had expected him to be much slower than that to trust her, especially after that rather spectacular entrance. Perhaps, she thought with more than a hint of sadness, he'd just jumped at the first chance he'd ever known.

As Mrs. Figg let her in, she commented: "Oh. I see what you mean, Harry." Then, smiling widely: "So, Professor... did your _errand_ go as expected?"

In order to answer, she would need the ability to speak, so she simply took the question as her cue to transform back.

"Let's just say that my list of other _errands_ just got a lot longer. I would love to stay and chat, Arabella, but we're just passing by. Do you mind if we use your fireplace?"

Harry's eyes went wide at that last remark, but she couldn't tell whether he was more puzzled or excited. He had probably understood that yet another piece of magic was involved, but he still couldn't connect the word 'fireplace' to travelling. If he got too scared to step into the roaring green flames, Side-Along Apparition would be a good alternative, but then they would have to walk all the way to the castle, and neither tiring him nor wasting time were in her plans for the immediate future. The sooner she could get Poppy to give the boy a complete check-up, the happier she would be.

"Not at all, Professor! Now... where did I put my Floo Powder again?" She retrieved a small vase that was almost at its fullest: either she received more visits than she made, or she'd just refilled it―perhaps she expected something like this to happen. But if she did, then she definitely knew more about the Dursleys than she was letting on... Merlin, she would end up worse than Mad-Eye Moody if she got any more paranoid!

"Harry," she said in the most reassuring tone she could muster, "what you're going to see is just one of the most common means of transport among wizards. I told you I won't hurt you, and I'll keep my word. Remember, it only _looks_ bad. You won't feel a thing."

"Okay." His eyes darted from the powder to her face and back.

"If you don't want to do this, there are other ways to get to Hogwarts. I won't be the least bit disappointed in you if you say no."

"I'm not scared." Small as he was, he still managed to look much older than seven as he said that, a steely glint in his eyes that shouldn't have been there at all. But then again, those eyes had seen things that no child should ever see.

"Good. Now watch." Pointing her wand at the fireplace, she muttered: "_Incendio_." A bright, crackling fire lit the room and―was that a low whistle of admiration he let out? That was a positive sign, for sure: maybe they hadn't yet drilled into him that all magic was bad. It would be hard to get him to talk about his past, but as soon as she did, she made a mental note to find out exactly how and how much they had influenced him on that point, since it could be of vital importance for his future education.

Then she dropped a handful of powder into the flames, making them turn emerald green and rise higher with a loud roar.

Harry backed away a bit, probably realising what would come next. "Do we have to... ?"

"I have a feeling you guessed right. If you want, I can go in first, then you can join me. And remember to hold on tight."

He nodded, staring at the fire. She'd gained _some_ of his trust, but admittedly, asking an abused child to step into a fireplace with an adult woman he'd just met was probably too much.

"I-I don't understand, Professor. Are you sure we won't be burnt?"

"Yes, Harry, I am entirely sure of that. This is how I got here in the first place, and I don't look hurt, do I?"

"Well, no, but then... do you have to use magic to stop it from hurting or something? I don't think I can do that."

"No, the fire is already magical in its own right. Look."

She stepped in and smiled at him, silently praying it would be enough to prove that she was perfectly fine. Awestruck, Harry inched towards the flames and stretched out a hand, not quite touching them yet. Minerva reached out and took it, hoping it would increase his confidence. He started a little at the physical contact, but relaxed almost instantly and let her tug him gently. He was in the fire up to the wrist now.

"Hey, it barely tickles!" And with that he all but dived into the fireplace, allowing her arms to envelope him. The soot made him cough a little, but other than that, he looked at ease, even happy. That was a look she'd rarely seen on his face – too rarely, in fact.

"Hogwarts Castle, Hospital Wing!" she stated, making sure one last time that her hold was firm. Arabella's house disappeared in a green whirl and they landed not too gracefully several miles away, in the desired part of the building.

* * *

Harry coughed furiously, having inhaled a little too much dust, but a few gulps of the clear air of the Hospital Wing soon set things right again. It didn't escape Minerva's notice that he lingered in her arms just a second longer than necessary.

"It didn't hurt, did it?"

"No, it didn't. Actually, I sort of liked it, because―" The rest got lost in a low mumble she couldn't decipher.

"Excuse me, Harry, I didn't quite catch that."

"It felt a little like a hug. When you had to hold me, I mean. I've never really... you know..."

It seemed her heart couldn't decide if it was more appropriate to break at the thought that he'd never been hugged before, or beat faster in a new fit of rage towards the Dursleys.

As he started taking in his surroundings, a very surprised Poppy Pomfrey rushed in. "Minerva! I thought you said you were away on research."

"In a way I was. In fact, I _found_ someone who needs your services."

She stared at Harry, probably wondering what a small boy could possibly have to do with a Transfiguration teacher's research, and recognition flashed across her face.

"Goodness me! Is that―"

"Not now, Poppy. Forgive me for inconveniencing you at this hour, but he needs a complete check-up. The rest can wait."

"A check-up?" Harry put in timidly. "But I'm okay, right?"

"That's what we're going to find out. This is Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse."

"Good evening, Madam," he said politely. Wherever he got his manners from, it definitely wasn't from his pig of a cousin. He was probably used to being very formal to adults, though: she'd come to realise that, despite her giving him permission to use her first name, he hadn't done it once.

"Why don't you undress and lie down on one of these beds, dear?"

Harry's eyes went wide, darting wildly between Poppy and the closest bed as he processed what she'd said. In his mind, there were likely several things wrong with that one sentence.

"Please, Harry, do as she says. I promise she won't hurt you either."

If she took the name as a confirmation of her suspicions, she didn't show it. Instead, she looked outraged: "Hurt him? Quite the opposite, I'd say!"

As if those words had encouraged him a little, Harry sat gingerly on the bed, looking very reluctant to take his newly Transfigured T-shirt off, though it was hard to tell whether he was hesitant to undress in front of adults or he feared it would disappear. Considering how he held it for a moment as if making sure it was real, it was probably a bit of both.

As soon as she saw his bare back, Poppy's eyebrows shot up higher than Minerva thought humanly possible. The marks of several old beatings formed a criss-cross pattern that sent shivers down both their spines.

"_Now_ I see why he needs a check-up," she muttered to herself. Then, a little louder: "Now, Harry, if you would just lie down and try and stay still..."

He obeyed for the most part, but couldn't help but squirm a bit when she pulled out her wand. It was worse than either of them thought. Usually, when running the standard diagnostic spells, it would move when it sensed something wrong as if it had found some sort of invisible obstacle in the air; this time, it gave more violent jerks than they could count, as the enchanted quill floating beside her scribbled so furiously it very nearly set the parchment on fire.

"Um... what was that?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"_That_, Harry, was something that I'm sure will prove very helpful in finding you a new home. If I may have a copy, that is, Poppy."

"Of course!" The nurse stopped reading the list just long enough to make a duplicate, then picked up where she left off, horror and anger mounting on her face. "Who... who did this to him, Minerva?"

"The very people who were supposed to keep him safe."

"What? But surely the Headmaster―"

"The Headmaster, as you'll have realised, isn't perfect, and apparently hasn't considered that, while protected from outside threats, he could be exposed to ones that came from inside. And now, to business. What can you do?"

"I'll be right back with all the potions I need." She hurried to get them, leaving Minerva and Harry a few moments' privacy. That pleading look could only mean he had a couple thousand questions to ask.

"Yes, Harry, potions exist too, and I promise that none of those will harm you, but I have to warn you that they taste awful."

He gave a weak smile. "That's okay. But what did Madam Pomfrey do, exactly?"

"It's called a diagnostic spell. We have to know exactly what those Muggles did to you."

"But..." The thought seemed to distress him.

"What's wrong?"

He looked away and hesitated, but finally managed to say: "W-well... you won't think bad of me now that you know, will you?"

"Why would I? You couldn't help any of that."

"I could have tried a little harder not to make them angry, though. Or I could have done... I don't know, _something_. Some wizard I am if I couldn't stop them for myself."

"Now, listen to me very carefully, Harry." He perked up at that, probably realising the importance of what she was about to say. "I don't know what they told you, and we'll talk about it only if and when you're ready, but none of the bad things that happened to you in that house were your fault. _They_ were wrong, not you."

"They always said I was bad, though."

"I'm a teacher, Harry. Don't you think I've seen my share of bad boys?"

"Yeah, I suppose you have."

"Exactly. And firstly, I know a bad boy when I see one, and you aren't. Secondly, I have never treated any of them like that, simply because no one ever should. There are other ways, ones that don't hurt. They didn't have the right to do that to you. Do you think you can understand that?"

"I can try. But then, why did they always tell me I deserved it?"

"Because they _wanted_ you to think so, Harry. But that doesn't mean they were right."

"But they've been telling me that for so long, and―" Something was obviously keeping him from saying what came next, but Minerva had a pretty good idea of how he intended that sentence to end.

"And I've stormed into your life with no warning, reversing everything they've ever told you, and you're not sure who of us to believe, is that it?"

He gasped. "Did you read my mind or something?"

"No, I can't read minds. But I'm pretty good at reading faces."

"Was I that easy to read?"

"After everything you've been through, anyone would be thinking that if they were in your place."

"So... how do I choose?"

"Be completely honest with yourself. Who do you want to believe?"

"I want to believe you, but I can't just decide that you're right and they were wrong just because it would be a lot better."

"That's a very good start, Harry. I know it will take longer than this for you to realise just how wrong they were."

"How can you be so sure, Professor? You keep saying all these nice things, but maybe someday I'll start making you angry too, and you'll think they were right all along and... and send me back to them."

"That is _not_ going to happen. I intend to speak to the Headmaster as soon as I can, and together we will find you a new place to stay. Nothing you can possibly do will change that."

"Really?"

"I give you my word, Harry, and one thing you'll learn about me is that when I promise something, I mean it."

"Sorry for the delay, it took me a while to find my last bottle of Skele-Gro," Poppy announced herself, rushing in again with a small tray that held a variety of potions. Minerva would have cursed her luck in Troll and Mermish if only she could speak them. She'd promised Harry several times that no one would ever harm him again, and he just so happened to need a healing product that worked miracles, but hurt in the process! Of course, it was for his own good, but he'd never known any pain that ultimately led to good results. Would he be able to tell the difference?

She looked at the boy and saw the desire to ask: 'What's that?' burning in his eyes, but for once, his endless curiosity would have to wait.

"May I have a word with you in private?"

"Of course. Follow me."

Once in the safety of her office, she allowed herself to whisper: "Is it really necessary?" She didn't want to risk underestimating Harry's hearing, even in the relative privacy of the room.

"Absolutely. I found a couple of fractures that never healed properly. He won't need more than a spoonful, but it'll help. That, and nutrient potions in his diet starting tomorrow. The scars are too old for me to do anything. I could have prevented new ones from forming, but he's going to have to keep those."

"But Skele-Gro is―"

"Not the most pleasant drink in the world, I know."

"I was making some progress, Poppy. It will all be lost if you give it to him."

"Not necessarily. I'm hoping some Dreamless Sleep Potion will be strong enough to make him sleep through the night without feeling any of it."

"It's not my field of expertise, and far be it from me to teach you how to do your job, but aren't you afraid they'll react badly with each other?"

"Do you think I'd be suggesting it if I had even the slightest doubt? Your mistrust offends me."

"I'm sorry. Harry is a difficult case... not my first, but a difficult one. I barely trust myself, let alone others."

"You really do care for him, don't you?"

"Was I that easy to read?" She realised she'd imitated him only after the words were out of her mouth.

"I'm not blind, Minerva. Your inner cat is dying to grab him by the scruff of his neck and take him somewhere safe, am I right?"

"The cat metaphor was a tad obvious, but other than that, I couldn't have said it any better myself."

"Let's get back to my patient, then."

Minerva felt the sting of something akin to jealousy at those words, but shook it off: what right did she have to consider Harry hers in any way? Sure, it had been the other way around for a while―she'd been _his_ pet. But would that ever be enough for him to accept her as part of what she hoped would be his new, real family?

She watched as Poppy poured a small dose of Skele-Gro into a spoon and prompted Harry to open his mouth; he eyed the contents as though they were about to jump out and attack him. Before a single drop of it touched his lips, she warned him: "I'd hold my breath if I were you."

He held his nose to feel as little of the horrid taste as he could, but still winced. "Eww! That's terrible!"

"Congratulations on not spitting it out," said Poppy. "Most people do the first time."

"Hurry, before it starts taking effect," Minerva whispered.

"There's one more you have to take―don't worry, it's a bit better." Poppy retrieved a vial of Dreamless Sleep from the tray and handed it to him. "Then I suggest you get some sleep. It's getting late."

Harry obediently gulped it down. "Sleep? But I don't really―" he was interrupted by a yawn, "feel like sleeping... whoa, what's this doing to me?" His head hit the pillow and he was fast asleep before he even had the time to take his glasses off. Minerva gently deposited them on the bedside table.

"He looks so innocent..." Poppy commented. With all the odd things she'd seen throughout her career, she wouldn't have pegged her as the sensitive type, but she supposed she must like children if she'd accepted the post as school nurse.

"He is. And look what they did to him. Now, if you'll excuse me, a confrontation awaits me. What password has _he_ come up with while I was away?"

"It's 'Fizzing Whizbees', but I doubt it'll last long."

"I'd better go before he changes his mind again, then. Good night, Poppy."

"Good night."

* * *

After the gargoyle hopped to the side at the mention of the Headmaster's latest sugary obsession, Minerva all but stormed into his office, holding her copy of the list of Harry's injuries much like she'd wield a weapon.

"Why so upset, Minerva? I take it your _research_ hasn't been successful." The ever-present twinkle in his eyes told her that he knew it wasn't precisely academic research she'd been doing; his surprise, though, seemed genuine. Perhaps there was still hope that he wasn't aware of what exactly she'd been up to.

"Quite the contrary, Albus. I have succeeded in my task. It's what I found along the way that upsets me so much." She was still holding her anger in, but she could feel the much-deserved yells pushing to come out.

"Well, then, by all means, tell me."

"I suggest you sit down. This could take all night."

He sighed as he took place on his throne-like chair. He'd realised it was serious―that was something, she supposed.

"For my _research_, if we still want to call it that, I had to go somewhere I daresay you know very well. Does Little Whinging, Surrey sound familiar?"

"Too familiar, as it has been one of your greatest worries for the past six years."

"And with good reason! If any of your little devices warned you that Harry has left the supposedly safe area, it's because he is currently in the Hospital Wing, healing from only a small part of all _this_!"

She slammed the list on his desk with all her might. "This is what they did to him, Albus, and there are wounds in the boy's heart much deeper than the ones Poppy found on his body. You were so concerned with protecting him from Dark wizards that apparently it just slipped your mind that threats could come to him from those despicable Muggles as well. Look! They beat him for the tiniest infraction, made him work like a house elf, didn't feed him properly and made him sleep in a blasted cupboard infested with spiders! And you call this safe? If this is safety, I shudder to think of your definition of danger. Are you going senile? Is that it? Because in all honesty, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, you were _insane_ to think they could ever treat him right!"

Admittedly, she felt much better after her long rant. She rarely allowed herself such disrespect towards him, but this time he deserved that and much more.

"But surely you understand that the blood wards―"

"The blood wards will do no more than a Squib attempting to cast a basic Shield Charm if the boy dies _inside_ them!"

He inhaled sharply. "You think the Muggles endangered his life?"

"Here's the list, see for yourself. I think they have, and if you don't believe me, then at least believe that if you send him back to them, they will. What if that whale of his uncle, who by the way is several times bigger than him, ends up beating him too hard? What if Petunia 'forgets' one too many meals? Even in the Muggle world there are ways to make murder look like an accident, Albus. The sort of magic that Lily triggered is unparalleled and I know that. I realise the importance of the blood wards just as well as you do, but we can't let him live that poor excuse of a life any longer. Find him some new guardians and make their house as protected as ordinary magic possibly can. That will have to do. Your precious Harry Potter needs safety, of course, but I say he also needs a real childhood."

As Albus read the parchment, a long, painful silence ensued. Each item on the list seemed to dim the twinkle in his eyes a little, and when he let go of it, allowing it to roll itself up on his desk again, it was gone.

"How long has this been going on?"

"I didn't ask, but Harry seems to remember nothing else."

"Did you see any of this happen with your own eyes?"

"I saw some of the consequences. Earlier tonight I prevented one more beating from appearing at the bottom of the list. And there are things Poppy's diagnosis doesn't say."

"What kind of things?"

"I'm willing to show you through your Pensieve, if you take it out. He doesn't recall having any clothes of his own. They wouldn't replace his glasses when they were broken. He's never received a kind word or a hug from any of them. They somehow drilled into him that he deserved what they were doing to him. They barely used his name and mostly called him 'boy' or 'freak'." She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyebrows rise slightly at that last word.

"Surely not because of―"

"His powers? Accidental magic was what earned him the worst punishments... not that he knew what it really was."

"Is he at least aware of what he is now?"

"Not thanks to them! I had to tell him. He took it quite well so far, but still has the impulse of calling himself a freak rather than a wizard. Just think what it could do to his education, and therefore, to his future role in the fight against _him_." _Let's see what he has to say to that._ Minerva was distinctly starting to visualize the conversation as a huge game of chess between the two of them, and was pretty sure that was a checkmate.

Albus pinched the bridge of his nose, as if for an incoming headache.

"This isn't going to be easy, Minerva. You've been warned. I suppose there are plenty of families who would be willing to take him, though. Let's see... what about the Weasleys?"

"They have seven children of their own, for Merlin's sake! I'm not saying they would be bad parents for Harry, but an abused child needs his guardians' undivided attention. Moreover, Molly is known for using rather _harsh_ disciplinarian methods on occasion. Her heart is in the right place, but nothing, and I do mean nothing, must remind him of his previous life."

"Very well, we can scratch one name off the list. The Diggorys, then?"

"Exemplary parents, I'm sure, but they dote on their own son far too much to make him feel welcome. He already thinks little of himself without having to live up to the model of someone who can do no wrong in their eyes. And Cedric is older. I don't need that load of guesswork that is Divination to foresee trouble in the period when he starts attending Hogwarts and Harry has to stay home... I believe Muggles call it an inferiority complex."

"Another family that won't be getting an owl from us anytime soon. What about Amelia Bones? Her niece should be in Harry's own year when he starts."

"Amelia Bones is a busy enough woman without the burden of a difficult child on her shoulders. Besides, with all her important contacts at the Ministry, the _Prophet_ would get wind of it in a matter of days, and we don't want any attention, do we?"

"True. Augusta Longbottom, then? You've known each other since your school days. Surely you trust _her_, at least. Age doesn't pose a problem, either, as Neville is older than Harry only by a handful of hours."

Minerva bit her lip in thought. He had a good point, but as much as she loved Augusta, she needed to find something against her as well. She'd instinctually tossed every name back like a Quaffle, and that, more than anything else, made her realise that, whoever Harry's new guardian would be, she'd be sorry to see him go. They'd bonded more than she had ever thought possible during her days as Tabby. She couldn't kid herself any further: she wanted to be much more than one of his teachers.

"Yes, Albus, Augusta and I go way back. In fact, we are on visiting terms, and I've had more than one chance to see what her attitude is doing to little Neville's self-esteem. She expected great things from Alice and Frank's son, but now that he's about to reach the age of seven without one single sign of magic, she has basically convinced both herself and her grandson that he's destined for failure. Just imagine what she would expect from the Boy Who Lived! The moment Harry disappoints her in the least, disaster is going to strike." _Speaking of age, if Neville's birthday is approaching, then Harry's will follow. I wonder if I can give him his first proper party._

"Alright, Minerva. As much as I'm enjoying this little game of ours, I daresay we've both had enough of it. Just say that you want this child yourself and be done with it."

"I never could hide anything from you, could I?"

"Very well. I have nothing personal against it. If you think you can handle him as well as your duties as teacher, Head of House and Deputy Headmistress, then by all means, the spare room in your quarters is his. But are you really up to this task?"

"I think I am, and if I'm not, then I swear to Merlin I'll find a way to be."

"Ah, I see you're determined."

"When have I been anything but determined?"

"You wouldn't be Head of Gryffindor if you weren't. Speaking of which, I've seen your relationship with every single one of your students, and even though you have no children of your own, they all are as good as your sons and daughters. If you were wondering, that is why I'm not being resistant to the idea. I'm confident you will be a good surrogate mother for Harry as well."

"Oh, no, Albus. I don't mean to replace Lily at all. She was, is, and always will be his only mother. But I do intend to honour her memory a thousand times better than her wretched sister did."

**Author's Note:** special thanks to: JustSidonie for making that lovely new picture that I will be using as the cover for this story from now on; Katzztar for suggesting Minerva's argument against Amos Diggory, about which I was honestly stumped.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – A New Beginning

_Harry's POV_

When Harry opened his eyes, the world around him looked strangely blurry. Huh, that was odd. He didn't remember taking his glasses off. And what was he doing in that bed with nice, clean sheets and a pillow so soft he felt like resting his head on it forever? He was even wearing pyjamas that definitely weren't his, though they were his size. How anyone could have helped him put them on without waking him up was beyond him.

Then the memories came crashing down on him and he suddenly found himself very much awake, all his grogginess forgotten. He sat up as if the pillow were burning hot and looked around until his gaze fell on his newly repaired glasses.

He barely had the time to put them back on when a female voice he recognised as Madam Pomfrey's startled him: "Hey, hey, hey, hold your Hippogriffs, little one! It's nice to see you awake, but rest as much as you can, alright?"

Harry was hit by two different thoughts at once: the first was that no one had ever allowed him to stay in bed late―he _had_ taken medicines the previous night, though, if those potions were the same thing as medicines, and Dudley could always stay in bed all day long when he was ill. The second thought was really stupid, and Harry was glad he had the sense not to voice it: _Hold my what, now? Why is it that these witches always use a lot of words I've never heard?_

Harry instantly plopped back onto the pillow, smiling slightly. He could definitely get used to it.

"How are you feeling?"

Much like Professor McGonagall, she sounded like she really cared; he supposed it was her job, though. Maybe she wouldn't be bothered if he answered with more than a couple of words. "Good. Actually, I'm feeling great! I haven't slept so well in... er, a lot of time, and―" He couldn't explain why exactly he felt better than usual; perhaps it had something to do with the first potion, the one that had been very hard to swallow because it burned and tasted every bit as horrible as the Professor had said, but he couldn't be sure of that if he didn't know what it was for.

"And Skele-Gro has worked its magic."

"I... I think so, Madam."

"Do you mind if I check something?"

She'd asked him so nicely that he couldn't help but nod, but he still scrambled back when she reached out to touch him. Did she have a sixth sense for knowing where it hurt or something?

"No! Not there, please! I-I... really don't like it."

"Let me guess, you took a bad blow right there at some point."

"Yes, but... it didn't really matter at the time."

"And it has hurt more than everywhere else ever since, am I right?"

"How did you know that?"

"I'm not a nurse for nothing. It's what I do. Now, you saw quite a lot of magic last night, didn't you?"

"It was amazing! Will I be able to do those things too, someday?"

"All in good time, Harry. Would you believe me if I told you that there was some magic at work while you slept, and that it won't hurt at all if I touch you?"

"Whoa, you fixed me like Professor McGonagall fixed my glasses? As if it had never happened?"

"You could say that."

"O-okay, give it a try." He waited with his eyes shut, but all he felt was a gentle hand poking him a little.

"See? That's what Skele-Gro does: it helps your bones grow. The reason why it hurt so much before is that you had a broken bone that hadn't been properly taken care of the way Muggles do it, but now you should be fine."

"I was right all along, then!"

"What do you mean?"

Harry had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Asking was part of her job, of course: the more she knew, the more she could do to fix him. But still, if answering was that hard, then it was no surprise that most of the people he'd met in his life disliked questions.

"It... it hurt so much I thought it had to be broken, and I really did try to tell them, but―" He couldn't get the rest of his tale out, as though he'd swallowed something that was now stuck in his throat and stopped the words from flowing.

"Shh, it's alright. I think I have a pretty good idea of what happened."

He let out a sigh of relief. He wasn't sure whether she knew by magic or by intuition, but to be honest, all he cared about was that he didn't have to talk about it anymore.

"Well, then, I think I have to go―"

"Go? Go where, exactly?"

"Actually, I don't know," Harry admitted, wishing he could take back what he'd said. He looked really stupid, didn't he? "It's probably Professor McGonagall who should decide what I have to do next. Where is she?"

"She'll be here shortly. In the meantime, Harry, you can stay. In fact, you are now officially my patient, and I say that getting out of that bed isn't good for you."

_What? But I feel great! I'm not ill or anything..._ He was itching to know at least why he had to stay in bed, but decided that he had more reasons not to ask. First off, it was technically an order, and he didn't want to find out what would happen if he questioned it. Secondly, he'd been told to do something really nice, for once, so why complain?

"Ah, I've seen that look on so many faces... you're getting restless already, aren't you? No surprise there... I'm sure you'll find something to pass the time sooner or later, but meanwhile, it's safer for you to stay as still as possible. I think Skele-Gro has done everything it possibly could, but you never know. Besides, it isn't easy to find your way around Hogwarts when you've never seen it before. I'll bet you anything you would get lost if I let you explore on your own."

"Wow, is it really that big?" The Professor had called it a castle when she'd said the address, and the stone walls and floor seemed to match that description. He'd seen pictures of castles before and they all looked huge, but Harry was used to finding his way around the very few new places he'd visited without asking anyone for help. How different could Hogwarts be, apart from the fact that it was magical?

"Big and more than a bit complicated. I wouldn't wander without a guide if I were you."

"And I'll be more than happy to show him around as soon as you think he's ready." Professor McGonagall hadn't even greeted them, but quite frankly, that promise was a thousand times more exciting than a simple 'hello'. He noticed that her robes were tartan this time―hey, so _that_ was where her slight accent was from. He'd had so many things to think about that his brain hadn't even bothered to recognise it as Scottish.

"But not on an empty stomach," said Madam Pomfrey. "It's about time you had breakfast, Harry."

His stomach growled a bit. It was as though curiosity had been stronger than hunger until breakfast had been mentioned. Then, a second later, he processed the whole meaning of what Madam Pomfrey had just said: one, she sounded as if giving him food didn't bother her in the least; two, if she was offering him a meal but hadn't yet given him permission to walk on his own feet, then he was going to get his very first breakfast in bed. Oh, dear. Even at the Dursleys', that was a 'special occasions only' sort of treatment, and she was willing to do it for him on a perfectly ordinary day! What was going on?

"Of course. Allow me. Snappy!"

Harry had barely had the time to wonder who or what 'Snappy' was, when a loud _crack_ resounded in the room and someone, or something, appeared. Literally. He very nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise, then allowed himself to look. A little creature was standing where there had been nothing up until a moment before. It was quite possibly one of the ugliest things he'd ever seen, though he supposed those large eyes were sort of pretty if one gave it some thought. It was wearing only a black towel with some sort of colourful crest on it: the 'H' in the middle made him suppose this... this being had something to do with the school. It only made sense for the letter to stand for 'Hogwarts', right?

Snappy had large, droopy ears and was very small, even shorter than Harry, who was used to everyone else towering over him, but it didn't look like a child at all; in fact, the wrinkles on its skin suggested it was pretty old. Maybe the creatures of its kind stayed small forever. What _was_ it, anyway?

"Harry, I'd like you to meet Snappy, one of the Hogwarts house-elves. Snappy, this is Harry Potter." He couldn't help but notice that his already big eyes went even wider when he heard his name. What was wrong with it? It was one of the few things the other boys didn't make fun of... much. "Fetch a healthy breakfast for him, please."

"Yes, Mistress!" Snappy said in a squeaky little voice that matched his size, then he disappeared with another _crack_.

"Whoa. Is _everyone_ magical around here?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"Um... Professor, what is a house-elf, exactly?" Seconds before, he would have been ready to swear that all sorts of elves, domestic or no, were fictional, though he supposed that if wizards and witches existed, elves really weren't much of a surprise.

"It's a kind of creature whose job is to work for wizards. There are several in the school kitchens, but some of them also work for one particular teacher. In Snappy's case, me. He's really nice, as you'll see, but fair warning: house-elves are a bit... odd."

"So, basically, Snappy does chores and that sort of things for you, is that right? Why? Did you bring him to Hogwarts when he had nowhere else to go?" Harry liked him already. It looked like they had a lot in common; maybe he could try and make friends with him. Snappy didn't seem to mind being with wizards, after all, so he hoped he wouldn't run from him like everybody else.

"Yes and no. I didn't bring Snappy here personally, he was just assigned to me. Hogwarts needs a lot of house-elves, considering how many people live here for most of the year, and the Headmaster takes in those who find themselves without a job, but they don't work out of gratitude. House-elves _need_ a job, and they're at their happiest when they have a wizard or witch to serve. They feel useless without a master, I suppose. That's no excuse to overwork little Snappy, though. I always make sure I don't ask too much of him."

"That's... that's very nice of you. And the Headmaster must be a nice person too, if he's made so many house-elves happy."

The Professor looked like she didn't exactly agree with him, but gave him a smile anyway. "Thank you. You see, not all wizards treat their house-elves well, but I feel it's only polite to be at least civil to mine, with everything he does for me."

"And... what do you do when Snappy does something wrong?"

A strange expression flashed across the Professor's face, but it disappeared so fast it could have been a trick of the light, and he didn't have time to try and read it. "Believe me, he's perfectly capable of understanding his own mistakes. The most I've ever done is make him promise not to repeat them. I would never hurt him on purpose, if that's what you were wondering."

Harry smiled. He knew he'd come to love the cat, but at that last sentence he dared to admit that maybe it was the same for the woman. It was early, terribly early to think that, but Professor McGonagall was truly amazing, and not just because of all the incredible things she could do with her wand. Snappy was there with practically the sole purpose of doing chores for her, and she still acted nice to him, even though he wasn't even―well, human. If that wasn't freaky, he didn't know what was, and she didn't care one bit.

"I'll be sure to thank him when he comes back. You really didn't have to make _your_ elf do things for _me_, though. Sorry to be a bother."

"You're not, Harry. Besides―" She paused abruptly as if stopping herself from saying something inappropriate. "Ah, nevermind. I'll save that for later. Is there anything you want to talk to me about while we wait for Snappy?"

Harry had about a thousand ideas, but he couldn't pick one to start from, so he remained silent for a moment. A part of him wanted to ask if she'd already found him a new home, because surely his stay at Hogwarts couldn't be a permanent solution, but that would sound really selfish, wouldn't it?

The thought of Hogwarts inspired a safer question: "What's the castle like? Madam Pomfrey said I could get lost in here."

Harry really wouldn't have liked to be on the receiving end of the glare the nurse got. "Of all the things you could tell him about Hogwarts, _that's_ what came to your mind first?"

"I'm sorry, Minerva, but aren't you the one who's always complaining about your students being late to class?"

"True, but half of their claims of having gotten lost are just excuses. Don't worry, Harry, you'll learn to find your way around sooner than you think. Hogwarts is big, and I won't deny that it takes some getting used to, but if everyone else manages, I don't see why you shouldn't."

Just then, Snappy reappeared with a second _crack_, barely balancing a tray that was definitely too large for him. Harry's eyes went about the size of saucers at the impressive display of toast, fresh fruit and more types of jam than he'd ever seen. The drink that came with it looked a bit like orange juice, but when he came closer he noticed that it didn't really smell like it.

"Thank you, Snappy!" he said, fighting the urge to pinch himself to check if he was dreaming.

The house-elf just about dropped everything he was carrying, as if those three simple words had surprised him, but steadied himself in time.

"That was really quick, as always," Professor McGonagall complimented him. Harry thought he saw him blush, but with the strange colour of his skin, it was hard to tell.

"Snappy is glad to do as Mistress says! Is there anything else Snappy can do for Mistress?"

"That will be all for now."

"Snappy is going back to the kitchens, then!" He deposited the tray on the bedside table with all the care in the world and went away again, leaving only air behind him. That, too, was almost starting to look normal to Harry―well, as normal as the coming and going of a creature that wasn't supposed to exist could ever be. Snappy hadn't really said much, but he could tell she'd been right in calling him a little odd, what with the disappearances and the fact that he always referred to himself by his name. And there was another thing about him that was starting to worry him.

"Why does he always call you 'Mistress'?" She'd never mentioned that title to him before and seemed to be okay with everyone else not using it, but if Snappy threw it in every few words, then it could only mean he was in serious trouble for not saying it.

"Oh, that? House-elves do it all the time. It's a tradition of theirs, I think. I don't expect it from anyone else, if that's what you were worried about. Now, why don't you help yourself? I see a nice breakfast that's just waiting for you."

Madam Pomfrey dashed out of the room as if suddenly remembering something. Harry watched her go, then his eyes went back to the food as if they had a life of their own.

"Really? I-I mean, no one was expecting me, Snappy probably went to a lot of trouble..."

"It's no trouble at all, I can assure you. You're not the only person in this castle that the elves have to feed. Some teachers don't leave the school during the summer. Snappy probably just had to ask the others for permission to take some food, and believe me when I say that there is always some extra food at Hogwarts."

Just as Harry allowed himself to spread some jam on a slice of toast, the nurse came back with yet another vial of something he'd never seen before.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to use that to get rid of the taste of this one, Harry. It's not as disgusting as Skele-Gro, though."

"Okay." He took the potion from her hand and drank it. It wasn't that bad, but he found it thicker than he had expected and had to swallow hard to get it down.

"Eat your fill, I'll go get some more of those. It's very important for you to drink one before every meal for a while; then you'll come back here and we'll check how well they've worked and go from there."

Harry wasn't sure if the food really was the best he'd ever eaten, or if it just tasted better because he was happier than he remembered being in quite a while, but after no more than two mouthfuls he'd already classified it as the best breakfast of his life.

"Slow down, Harry. You'll choke on your food if you eat so fast," said Professor McGonagall. He deliberately started chewing a little slower. There it was, his first mistake in front of her. Things could only go downhill from there.

He swallowed, not wanting to add talking with his mouth full to his list of wrongdoings, and answered in a small voice: "I'm sorry."

"I wasn't scolding you, Harry. If any of my students were here, they could tell the difference, believe me. There is nothing wrong with your manners so far; I was just _worried_. That's not the same."

"Worried?" Harry repeated, probably sounding silly. The Professor had been worried about him. That made him feel... well, he wasn't exactly sure how, but he was pretty sure that wasn't the right feeling at all. He should have been sorry about that, but he wasn't. All he could think about was that she cared enough to worry, and even though a little voice at the back of his head told him that being glad about worrying someone was a very bad thing, he actually mustered up the courage to tell it to shut up.

"It's... it's just that I'm used to eating pretty fast." He didn't really want to explain why, but she'd probably seen those reasons during her days as a cat: that he had to hurry because one of them could call him at any time, and if he stopped eating and came back later he would find that whatever he had left was already gone; that if he saw Dudley particularly hungry, his first reaction was to shield his food from view, otherwise he would just come and push him away to get it.

"Don't think I haven't noticed. But Harry, food isn't just a necessity, it's also something that can be enjoyed when you have time. And right now, you have all the time in the world."

That was probably why it tasted so good. While he was more than ready to bet that any food prepared at Hogwarts was probably better than Aunt Petunia's cooking or his own, especially if there had been magic involved (and quite frankly, he had yet to see anything in which it _wasn't_), the real reason why he liked it had very little to do with the contents of Snappy's tray. There was a whole other explanation: it was the first meal he'd ever truly enjoyed.

He ate some more, but had to push the tray away sooner than he thought. Professor McGonagall looked at it as if trying to estimate how much food was missing from the pretty display her elf had put together, then turned her attention to him: "Are you sure you're full?"

Madam Pomfrey came back with a box that appeared to hold a number of vials identical to the one he'd emptied before.

"This should be enough for two weeks. Oh, and I wouldn't worry if he's not very hungry, either. They do tend to make you feel a bit full... they don't call them nutrient for nothing, do they?"

"Is that what they are? Nutrient potions?"

"Yes, Harry. Something tells me you've always been rather smaller than other boys, haven't you?"

How did she know all those things about him? "Well, yes, but it's never been much of a problem. I-I mean, there was another boy in my class who was shorter than everybody else, and then we found him a lot taller when we came back after the holidays. Everyone grows up eventually, right? I just thought I had to wait."

"You're only partly right. There are other things besides time that make you grow up, and with these, you'll catch up faster."

"Okay. I can't wait." They both smiled at that―smiled, not laughed. In fact, no one had laughed at him yet.

"See you in two weeks for a refill, then." The nurse closed the box and handed it to Professor McGonagall.

"Um, so... will you give those to my new guardians or something? If you've already found some, I mean."

"Actually, Harry..." here she paused and shared a look with Madam Pomfrey, but he couldn't tell what it meant, "your new guardian is right here."

He found himself breathless once again. Cat or no cat, the Professor's real power was to shock him the moment she opened her mouth. Did she seriously mean _herself_?

"Really?"

"Do I look like I would lie about something so important?"

"Well... no, but it's just―"

"A lot to handle, as everything else I've told you so far. Would you feel better if I showed you the place where you'll be living?"

She looked at the nurse as if asking for her approval.

"Fine, he has my official permission to get up now."

"You'd always keep them a little longer than necessary, wouldn't you?"

"You know me too well, Minerva. But hey, you can never be too safe."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey," said Harry as he scrambled out of bed.

"For doing my job?"

"For caring about me," he blurted out. Maybe saying it quickly would make it a little easier.

* * *

Harry really appreciated the Professor trying to reassure him, but his first impression of the castle outside the Hospital Wing made him think Madam Pomfrey was right: he was sure to get lost the moment he let his guide out of his sight.

Thankfully, she seemed to know exactly where she was going, so all Harry had to do was follow her closely, wishing he had eyes on the back of his neck as well as on his face so he could see all the wonders that Hogwarts had in store for him. Not having to worry much about finding his way, he had plenty of time to stare in awe at his surroundings and found that apparently there could be some magic in all sorts of objects that even his active imagination couldn't picture as being the least bit out of the ordinary. People in portraits waved and talked to him; some even moved from one frame to another to follow him, and within five minutes he was the object of all of their gossip. They passed a lot of closed doors that probably hid even more interesting things to look at, and an open one that seemed to lead to a room full of all kinds of well-polished trophies. What was more, even the staircases moved around a lot. Harry and Professor McGonagall were so lucky as to go down ones that were in the mood for staying still, but seeing everything else above them and below them shift made him a little dizzy.

"How do you remember where everything is?"

"I didn't at first, but I've lived here for so long I could walk these corridors with my eyes closed. All I can tell you is to explore and get used to it. There's no other way."

"What if I get lost?"

"There is nothing to be ashamed of in asking for directions, Harry, and trust me when I say that it's very easy to find someone to ask."

"I haven't seen anyone around, though."

"Oh, but I don't mean people... not exactly."

"Then what―" His question was interrupted, but what came out of the wall to their right was the answer. Harry started and couldn't hold back a little shriek.

"That's no way to treat our newest guest, Sir Nicholas! Taking him by surprise like that... I expected better from you. Is this some sort of test you came up with to see if you deem him brave enough for Gryffindor?" the Professor scolded him. Harry made a mental note not to cross her; she'd been nothing but nice so far, but that side of her was scary.

"I can see that! I take it you've never seen a ghost before, have you?"

"N-no, sir." He supposed calling a ghost 'sir' was appropriate, seeing as she'd just done it.

"Well, then, I'm pleased to be your first. Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, ghost of Gryffindor Tower, at your service."

No one had ever been so formal to him. His transparent form was wearing very strange clothes, though―maybe that was just the way people talked when those ruffled collars were in fashion. His full name, too, was a real mouthful: he hoped he'd be okay with just 'Nicholas'.

"Nice to meet you, sir. I'm Harry, Harry Potter." If it was possible for ghostly eyebrows to shoot up, his definitely did. What was up with everyone reacting like that to his name? Snappy had been the same, and even Madam Pomfrey seemed to know him. Was it more magic? If it was, he hoped Professor McGonagall would at least teach him that, because he was getting a little tired of being the only one to need introductions.

"Nice to see you at Hogwarts at last, Mr. Potter, but if I'm not very much mistaken, it's early for that. Isn't it, Professor? My perception of time might be a little off..."

"You're right, Sir Nicholas, it is early for Harry to be a student. There is, however, a perfectly good reason for him to be here, and there will be plenty of time for explanations later. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have something important to attend to."

"Very well, then, I won't delay you any longer. Farewell." And with that, he disappeared through the same wall.

The few words they'd exchanged made Harry want to ask about a million more questions, but when Professor McGonagall stopped in front of a door and opened it, he decided he would put them off.

"Welcome to my office. That door over there leads to my private quarters. One of the rooms is mine, the other was meant for occasional guests, but it will be yours from now on. Feel free to explore."

As if the robes she was sporting that day weren't enough to show off her Scottish pride, nearly every surface in the office had some tartan plaid on it―in the very same colours she was wearing, too. She easily could have disappeared in there like some sort of chameleon. The second distinguishing feature Harry noticed were the books. Lots and lots of books, some of which placed so high one would need a ladder to reach them, though there was no such thing anywhere. Since magic appeared to be the answer to everything, it was probably the only way to get them. A shiny silver cup stood alone on a shelf behind the Professor's high-backed chair, and he thought he could see the word 'Quidditch' on it, but it was probably time to change his glasses again or something, because he couldn't possibly have read it right, unless it was yet another one of those funny terms he didn't know and that wizards and witches enjoyed using all the time.

Just out of curiosity, Harry went to the window for a glimpse of what was outside the castle. It overlooked something vaguely similar to a stadium, though it wasn't at all the same as the ones he briefly saw on TV whenever someone watched sports. The short grass and the clearly artificial lines on the ground suggested that the field was used to play some kind of game, but the oval shape and the things at either end really didn't help him understand what it was. They looked like a huge version of the little sticks that were used to make soap bubbles―for a brief instant, Harry thought that making such enormous ones would be a good enough repayment for never being allowed to play with the normal ones before.

"Do you like the view?"

"It's... interesting," he answered, hoping he didn't sound like he had no idea what he was looking at.

"Remind me to get you a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ from the library. You'll understand a lot more if you read it. I would explain you the basics myself, but there is something you have to see before we can sit and talk."

There was that word again. If Quidditch was a game, then it made sense for it to be written on a trophy, but he wasn't really sure why it was there instead of having its own spot in the room they'd passed before.

He let the Professor guide him to her quarters. One of the doors led to her bedroom, another to a small but overall nice bathroom they would both be using, and the third... he had a hard time coming to terms with what was behind the third door.

When she opened it, he let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding and racked his brains for an intelligent reaction, but all that came out was: "Wow!"

The essentials for the perfect bedroom were all there, and then some. There was a desk not unlike the one in the Professor's office, a large wardrobe he didn't know exactly how he would manage to fill, yet another bookshelf, though smaller than the ones that lined every single one of her walls, and most importantly, a four-poster bed with thick red curtains that was fit for a king.

"Well? What do you think?"

"Is... is this really mine?"

"Of course it is! I promised, didn't I?"

"Well, yes, but... don't get me wrong, but it doesn't really _feel_ mine yet. It's not that I don't like it, because I do, but I just... don't get it. What did I do to deserve it?"

"Oh, Harry, a room of your own isn't something that should be deserved in the first place. As your new guardian, I'm supposed to provide you with it. It has nothing to do with you being good or bad. You have a right to it, and that's that. Now, why don't you go try out your bed and tell me if you find it comfortable? It shouldn't be too difficult for me to make it softer or harder. All you have to do is ask."

Whoa. Magic really did have its advantages. Had his new guardian been a – what was it again? – Muggle, he would have had to get used to his bed as it was, because replacing it would have been too much trouble, but with her ability to turn whatever wasn't right into something else, it was an entirely different story. He could make requests even Dudley couldn't dream of, if he wanted. The thought made his head reel. But _did_ he want all those things or not? Harry wasn't sure. It would have been nice, of course, but somehow he didn't really think he could ever become even worse than his cousin was, and especially not overnight. It was as though being cared about took some training, and since he was very new at it, he couldn't be expected to know what to do. He loved the idea of having someone who was willing to give him what he wanted, but the problem was that he had no idea what to ask for. What the Professor had done was already more than he could have imagined; she seemed to be waiting for him to ask for more, but nothing came to his mind. It wasn't for fear of bothering her, either: it was just that what he had was enough.

It was only when he sat on his new bed and even allowed himself to bounce a little to test it that it hit him: that place was his. It didn't look or feel like it yet, but in time, he would make it so. Somewhere nice and cozy to get back to at the end of the day. A space within four walls where he could do pretty much whatever he wanted. _His room_. For just a split second, he wondered if the Professor would allow him to scream those words to the whole wide world, but then he thought better of it. He would look stupid if he did that, not to mention insane. It really was a special moment, though, one he wanted to savour: the cupboard had never really felt like his own, either. Maybe it was because it got more and more cramped as he grew, or because the spiders kept coming back no matter what he did to get rid of them, or because some of the stuff that was kept there wasn't his, but the sign he'd made as soon as he'd learnt to write had never been much of an improvement. This place, however, was different. First off, it was a real room, and secondly, it didn't feel like a temporary solution that would only last until they got rid of him. This was forever. He had to do something to celebrate, and suddenly, he knew exactly what that something was.

"It's... perfect. And I don't mean just the bed. Everything is perfect. I wouldn't change it one bit. Just... may I have a new 'Harry's Room' sign somewhere? It seems like the right thing to do."

"I'll get you a quill and parchment straight away."

The look on his face must have told her plainly that he'd never used those before, because she quickly added: "Use as much as you need. It's a chance to learn. A lot of Muggleborn students have terrible handwritings when they first get here. As long as you improve, you can use miles of parchment, and I won't consider it a waste at all."

"Thank you so much!"

Harry spent most of the morning sitting at his brand new desk, his failed attempts piling up in front of him, but in the end, he finally managed to make a sign he liked. It was bigger and better than the previous one, both because his writing had improved since he'd made it and because the ink the Professor had given him changed colour as he went on, making the letters look like a miniature rainbow. He had stains in unthinkable places, but he was satisfied.

"That looks great, Harry," she said approvingly, looking at it over his shoulder. Then she sent it to its place right above the door with a flick of her wand and said something he didn't catch. The parchment just stayed there.

"What, no glue?"

"Better than glue. It's a Permanent Sticking Charm. It means it will never come off."

If that wasn't proof that this was forever, Harry didn't know what was.

**Author's Note:** I have never handled house-elf speech in English before in my entire life, therefore I cut Snappy's lines to the bare minimum and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I also have the perfect excuse for his speaking abilities being a little better than average, thus making him easier for me to write: it appears that each known elf has a slightly different way of speaking, and that their level depends largely on how they were raised by their respective families. Considering this, I say that McGonagall has taught him well. I see her as a very nitpicky person when it comes to grammar.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – Stories and Surprises

_Harry's POV_

Between the time he took to make the sign and the long minutes spent just taking in every single detail of his room, lunchtime crept up on Harry before he realised.

He'd already sprung up from his bed when he remembered that cooking was probably Snappy's job. To be honest, he had no idea where meals were served at Hogwarts, or where all of the food was kept, so he couldn't go and help even if he wanted. It was a little weird to sit and wait for someone else to prepare his lunch, with absolutely nothing to do in the meantime. He didn't feel guilty, exactly; he wasn't used to it, that was all. It was just like when he knew he'd forgotten something, but didn't know what that something was: without his cooking duties, his day seemed to be missing a piece.

He went back to the Professor's office to ask her where he was supposed to eat, and had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things: her desk was gone and a table, with two matching chairs facing each other, had already been laid in the middle of the room instead. The only thing missing was the food, but he supposed Snappy was already busy with that.

"Surprised, Harry? Meals are usually served in the Great Hall downstairs, but I thought you'd like something a little bit more private this time. You've already had to handle a lot without me introducing you to several people at once."

"Thank you." Harry was pretty sure remembering all of her colleagues' names would be a nightmare, so he really appreciated it. It was one less chance to look stupid.

He guessed which one was his seat by the small vial of nutrient potion next to his plate, and they both took their places. That, too, was a pleasant surprise: he barely knew what it felt like to have a companion because he was used to eating what he could either before or after the rest of them―when he didn't skip meals altogether, that is.

Once again, Harry thought he was dreaming when Snappy came back with their lunch, but a few mouthfuls confirmed that the roast chicken was very much real. And if that weren't enough, the elf kept coming back with more courses, ending their private feast with some treacle tart. If that was regularly served at Hogwarts, Harry already knew he'd come to love it. He made it a point to try a bit of everything, but between the food and the potion, his stomach soon felt fuller than it ever had.

"That was the best lunch of my life!" The Professor gave a half-smile, but didn't seem to consider it much of a compliment.

"I'm glad you think so. With a few more square meals and Madam Pomfrey's help, you'll grow up in no time."

They both watched Snappy take the dirty dishes back to wherever they came from, then Professor McGonagall drew her wand. "Well, I'd better get my desk back. Is there anything else you want to ask me? It's a way like any other to pass the afternoon, and there are countless things I'm sure you're itching to know."

"There is one," said Harry, though 'a million' was closer to the truth. "Why does everyone seem to know me?"

The Professor stopped dead. Uh-oh. With his luck, he'd probably just asked the _one_ question she didn't want to hear. Why did he always have to make mistakes?

But when she looked at him, her expression wasn't angry at all. She looked very serious, but not mad at him. Harry could feel something in the air change, though, as if the atmosphere in the room had just gotten a lot more tense all of a sudden. It was the sort of feeling that always preceded something important.

"It's a good thing the furniture isn't back to normal. We need to sit down for this one."

"Is... is it something I said?"

"No, Harry. I just didn't think this moment would come so soon."

He would have dearly loved to ask: 'What moment?', but decided not to risk it. Maybe she wouldn't want to answer anymore if he annoyed her.

"Now, Harry, I have to ask you for something that might be difficult for you. It's okay if you don't feel like answering. I need you to tell me exactly what _they_ told you about your parents."

"Nothing. No one was allowed to talk about them, and I mean no one, not just me. But then, one day, someone in my class asked me about this," here he paused and brushed his hair away to show his scar, "before Dudley scared him away, I mean. And... well... since Aunt Petunia seemed to be in a good mood, I asked, even though I knew I shouldn't. She told me I'd gotten it in the car crash in which my parents died, and that was it. No more talking about them."

For the second time in a row, Harry was afraid he'd said something terribly wrong. The Professor looked outraged, her lips reduced to a thin line, so much fury emanating from her that he could very nearly see it as a third presence in the room.

In a strangely calm voice – 'the calm before the storm', he'd once heard say – she repeated, as if making sure: "A car crash. They told you your parents died in a car crash?"

"Yes, Professor. Is... is something wrong?"

"Oh, Harry... _everything_ is wrong." There, she'd said it. What would happen now? Would she change her mind about being his guardian so soon?

His eyes must have gone wide at that, because she added in a rush: "Not with what you said, with _them_!"

Harry was so relieved he could have cried with happiness, but crying usually got him into trouble, so he managed to stop himself.

"W-what do you mean?"

She took a deep breath as if to steady herself. "Have you ever seen a car crash? On television, maybe?" He thought he'd heard her pause a little before saying 'television', but he wasn't sure what the hesitation meant.

"I think so. It wasn't pretty. The cars were in such a bad state you could barely tell what they were. I remember Uncle Vernon going on about people driving drunk..."

"Exactly. Now, Harry, how do you think you survived such a thing with just that scar?"

He thought hard, but how was he supposed to know how car accidents worked? He wasn't a doctor or anything! He'd just been lucky to get out of it almost unhurt, and that was it. He really couldn't picture how it had happened. And then there was that dream he always had, the one with the green light that always woke him up with a start. He'd always thought it could be a memory of the crash, since nothing of that sort had ever happened to him at the Dursleys', but he had no idea where the light came from. Headlights looked nothing like that.

"I... I suppose it's a bit small, but..."

"There is a reason why it's so small, Harry, and it's probably going to be your greatest shock yet. Believe me, I hate to tell you, but... your parents did _not_ die in a car crash. Your relatives lied to you."

Harry didn't know what to think or feel. He just sat there in silence, caught in a whirl of so many different ideas at once that he didn't know where to start from. On the one hand, the Professor was convinced they'd lied to him about so many other things, this one should have been no surprise. On the other hand, it seemed impossible to him that _everything_ they'd ever told him was a lie. How could anyone enjoy lying so much? Perhaps they really thought it had been a car crash, and they'd never noticed that his scar didn't match that story. For maybe a split second, Harry allowed himself to hope that the Professor meant to say they weren't dead at all, but then realised that it didn't make any sense. Had they been alive, he wouldn't have had to live with his aunt and uncle for all those years. He wasn't disappointed: he was already so used to accepting that he was 'Harry the orphan' that it really didn't make much of a difference. Crash or no crash, his parents stayed dead, and there was no point in getting his hopes up. But there was something that _could_ make all the difference in the world.

"How... how did they die, then?"

"Remember when I told you that there are good wizards and bad wizards?"

Harry shivered a little. Did she mean... ? "Yes, Professor."

"The truth, Harry, is that your parents died at the hands of one of those evil wizards. The worst our world has ever seen, probably. I wish I had a way, any way, to be less harsh, but you have a right to know. He came to your parents' house on October 31st, 1981, and he killed them. He tried to kill you as well, but... he failed."

"The green light..." he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"You remember that?"

"A little, I think. But... Professor, who is he?"

Harry fought back the urge to cry, but he knew he would break down eventually. She'd been okay with many things before, so he hoped it would be the same with tears.

"Most wizards do not say his name. I normally hesitate to say it myself, but this calls for an exception. His name was Voldemort."

Harry caught on to the most important part. "'Was'? Is he dead too?"

"No one knows for sure. Some think he's dead, others disagree. What we do know is that he lost his powers and fled. He's probably hiding somewhere."

"Why did he do that?"

"Again, Harry, nobody can be certain. Your parents weren't the only ones. He killed other people as well, and it wasn't always clear why."

"How... how did I survive? I mean... why _me_, of all people? What do I have that none of the others had?" Maybe he'd just gotten something wrong when he tried to kill him... but no, he'd done it many times before, hadn't he? It couldn't possibly have been just a stroke of luck. Harry could use several words to describe himself, but up until very recently, he wouldn't have used the term 'lucky'. But then, if it wasn't because of that man, the only other option was for _him_ to be different than all of the other people he'd killed. Did that make him – it was odd to think that – somehow special? That must be why everyone knew him before he introduced himself, but so far, he hadn't been able to tell whether their surprise had been of a good or bad kind.

"There are theories, Harry, one more unlikely than the next, but I can't give you a definite answer yet."

'Hate', like 'love', was one of those words that were much bigger than they sounded. Harry wasn't sure he'd ever truly hated anyone, even his relatives when they were at their worst―they didn't like him, but they'd at least given him a place to stay. But this wizard, Voldemort (and what a strange name it was)... he didn't even remember his face, he'd never seen him again after that day, but he was pretty sure he hated him. He was the reason he had no one to call Mum or Dad, and that was it. He knew nothing else about him, not even the tiniest little thing that could make him correct himself and think that 'hate' was too much. How could he not hate the person who took his parents away from him? He had no one to tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight, no one who would swell with pride on his first day of school, no one to hug him and say 'I love you'... all because of him. If it was possible to _decide_ to hate someone, Harry had just done that. What he felt towards the faceless figure that was Voldemort wasn't at all like his feelings towards the Dursleys: with them, all he ever wanted was to make them stop, but for one reason or another, he never truly thought he could get back at them. This time, however, was different. For the first time in his life, Harry knew what it felt like to want to hurt someone. He remembered very little of the day his parents died, but he needed no details to be sure that if the wizard were right there in front of him, no matter how much older or stronger than him he was, he would... he would just...

_Crash._

The next thing he knew, his empty glass had fallen to a million little pieces.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry, Professor, I won't do it again, I promise!"

Thoughts chased each other in his mind without really getting anywhere. He'd apologised without even fully realising it, but then he told himself that maybe she wouldn't want him to be sorry for doing one of his freaky things; about half a second later, though, he changed his mind again, because if magic itself needed no apology (_it's _magic_, Harry, not _freaky things_, get used to it!_), breaking a glass that wasn't his definitely did.

"There's no need to be sorry. To be fair, I was just waiting for something like this to happen."

"But... but..." That wasn't the reaction he had expected at all.

"Oh, come on, Harry! Magic broke it, and magic will fix it. _Reparo_!" Hey, that sounded the same as the strange word she'd said to repair his glasses. He felt sort of proud of himself for remembering it.

As the tiny shards all flew back together as if they'd never been scattered all over the place, he even went as far as to suppose it could fix pretty much anything. Whoever invented it must have been very smart.

"You've been doing that a lot around me," he commented with just a little hint of a smile. "Are you sure you're not mad?"

"I'm not, but something tells me that you were." And she said she couldn't read minds? "Before you say anything, Harry, accidental magic happens mostly when young wizards are either angry or scared."

"Okay, then, maybe I was. When you told me about _him_, I just... I wanted to hurt him." Then an unpleasant little voice in his head whispered: _You're not much better than him if you want that..._ Harry shivered at the idea. Hoping it had gone unnoticed, he added weakly: "Is that a bad thing?"

"After what he's done? You have every right in the world to hate him, Harry."

He let out a sigh of relief. Hate wasn't a nice feeling at all. It burned and hurt as if a living creature were clawing at the inside of his chest. Now that the Professor had said it was okay, maybe he would be able to bear it. But still, it made him want to do _something_, anything, and all he could do was sit around and wait without even knowing what exactly he was waiting for. It was really strange to feel powerless so shortly after he'd found out he definitely wasn't.

"Thanks for saying that. I think I needed to hear it."

"Don't mention it. By the way, Harry... that was pretty impressive for your age." The Professor paused, stood up and turned the table back into her usual desk as if it weren't something incredible to do in the middle of a conversation at all. The only reason he wasn't startled was that she'd already said she wanted to do it – or maybe he was just too busy being happy for the compliment. It was all the more meaningful because it was the first time he'd ever gotten praise instead of punishment for doing magic.

She sat down again so that the re-Transfigured desk formed a sort of barrier between them; if Hogwarts worked anything like Muggle schools, he supposed many students had been in his place before, only for getting in trouble, not because they'd just had lunch with her.

"In fact, I have the perfect way to get your mind off things. Why don't we exchange some stories?"

"Exchange stories? What do you mean by that?" If she was going to tell him more interesting things about magic, then he was all for it, but it was the word 'exchange' that puzzled him. He didn't really have much to tell her. His life so far had been a lot less exciting than anything she had in store.

"I'd like you to tell me more about your other outbursts of accidental magic. I know it will probably bring back some bad memories, and it's perfectly okay if you don't want to, but as a teacher, I think it might be useful. And then, perhaps, I can tell you about your parents. I taught them, so I used to know them well, and while I'm aware that no story can replace them, I thought you'd like to know anyway."

His feelings about the exchange were mixed. He couldn't wait to hear about his mother and his father, of course: apart from that one detail, that he had her eyes, he had no idea what they looked like, let alone what sort of people they'd been. But there was a huge problem in sight: try as he might, he couldn't think back to any of those episodes (_accidental magic, Harry! They're just two words, learn them already!_) without remembering the pain that came with them, too. Without that, it could have been a pleasant way to spend the afternoon: some of the things that had happened were even funny, if one looked at them for what they were. What wasn't funny at all were the consequences.

"Er, okay. Once, I found myself on a roof with no idea how I'd gotten there. It did get me away from Dudley, I guess, but I got in trouble later. None of the teachers could figure it out either, so they called my aunt and uncle, and... well..."

"You don't have to tell me that. In fact, the less you talk about what happened _after_ you did magic, the better it is for both of us. What I want to know is what you did and why you think you did it. We can save everything else for another time. For example, do you remember what it felt like? You said you 'found yourself' on the roof. Do you mean that one moment you were on the ground, and the next you were there?"

"Not really, but I don't remember much. I was too surprised to think straight. When they asked me about it, the first thing that came to my mind was that the wind must have caught me mid-jump, so... I guess I sort of flew to the roof or something."

"Ah, that explains a lot. You see, Apparating – that is, going to one place to another in the blink of an eye, kind of like Snappy does – is a skill that people much older than you find very hard. I would have been most surprised to know you'd done it without anyone teaching you. Flying, instead, is something you've got in your blood. From both sides of the family, I'd say."

"Really?" Without even realising, Harry leant forward to listen closely.

"I remember overhearing Lily talking about a very similar episode―something about jumping off of a swing without getting hurt. And your father, well... if left to himself, he would spend more time flying than walking. He was a Quidditch star in his school days, and Quidditch is played on flying broomsticks. That's why the rings on the pitch are placed so high in the air, if you were wondering."

"Flying broomsticks are real too? Will I be able to ride one someday?"

"We could arrange that sometime in the future. I'm glad to see such enthusiasm. You really are your father's son, Harry. Most students with a Muggle background are more afraid to fall off than excited."

"But I like heights. The world always looks beautiful from there, no matter how many bad things are actually happening down below."

"I'm sure you'll enjoy the view from a broomstick, then. From that distance, someone looking at you might even think they're seeing a little James. Apart from your eyes, you look exactly like him, but who can see your eye colour from the ground when you're flying?"

"Wow! Thank you so much!"

"What for?"

"I can picture them better now. I've tried before, but I didn't know what to imagine, so they were always sort of faceless in my daydreams. And now they aren't, so... thank you."

The Professor gave a tiny, sad smile. "I can try and get you some photos of them. I'll contact some people who might have them as soon as possible. Oh, and by the way... wizarding photos move, too."

"Like the portraits?"

"That's the idea."

Harry swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat was still there. Maybe it was just because she was doing so much for him, but deep down he knew there was another reason. He was afraid to voice it because he was sure it was so sentimental it'd sound silly, but he risked it: "So... I'm going to be able to see them smile at me."

"Exactly."

Harry didn't say it, but he'd already decided that as soon as he got those pictures, he would fall into the habit of looking at them first thing in the morning and every night before bed. Probably for the rest of his life.

"Thank you, Professor." Then he was struck by a brilliant idea. It was one story in exchange for another, right? What would she tell him for the episode he believed she'd find most interesting of all? "I have more stories, if you want them. And you sound like you've got plenty, so... we really could go on all day, couldn't we?"

"I'm all ears, Harry. What makes you so eager to talk?"

The prize, for one thing – if remembering accidental magic gave such great rewards, then it was definitely worth it. And then there was the fact that he was happier than before, and he was always more talkative when he was happy, but there was no need to tell her that. He was sure his face showed it enough.

"Well, it _is_ an exchange of stories, right? I think I have one you might like. Does making things change colour count as Transfiguration?"

She visibly perked up. Ha! That had been a smart choice, then. "It might. Why?"

"Because once, I turned my teacher's wig blue after I got yelled at for something I hadn't done." Not the best story to tell another teacher, but he hoped she wouldn't get mad at him for making a Muggle 'colleague' of hers look ridiculous. He still had the decency to look a little sheepish, though.

"A wig? You're not in luck, Harry. Had it been your teacher's real hair, it would have been similar to an exercise in human Transfiguration that I require my students to do, but as it was, it counts as a Colour Change Charm. Not my field, but Professor Flitwick would take his hat off to you. Not that I'm disappointed, though―human Transfiguration with no training is almost unheard of. Only sixth years and upper can do that, and education at Hogwarts lasts seven."

Ah, well. Almost there. He couldn't be expected to know that little difference.

"I _should_ say something about the fact that you technically played a prank on your teacher, but as it was unintentional, I won't. Do try not to be as troublesome as James and his friends, though, for both of our sakes."

"My Dad caused trouble at school?" He almost slipped and said 'sorry', but he couldn't do anything about things that had happened before he was even born, right? "I'll try not to, I promise. I couldn't hold myself that one time, though. Everyone laughed so hard I almost told them it had been me. It would have scared them off even more, now that I think about it, but for a second, I thought I'd become their hero if I confessed." Harry allowed himself to laugh a little at the memory, too. He'd been the only one not to back then, so this sort of counted, even if it was late. It was the first time he'd ever laughed at the thought of having done magic – most of the effects had been rather humorous, actually, but he'd never seen the amusing side before.

"I can imagine. All things considered, it was wise of you not to tell an entire class: witches and wizards do everything they possibly can to keep their existence hidden from Muggles. It is one of our most important rules, and you followed it unknowingly. You probably saved us some trouble, too."

"Really? How?" Before he could feel proud of himself for that, he wanted to understand it exactly.

"Remember when I made them forget ever seeing me in human form?"

"Yes, Professor."

"That's called a Memory Charm, and we have people who are trained to do just that when magic happens in front of Muggles. A small squad probably went to your school anyway, but if you'd told your classmates you'd done that, their job would have been more complicated."

"It's kind of weird to find out I helped some strangers, or that I followed a rule that I didn't even know existed. It's... it's as if this is what I was meant to do all along. Becoming a wizard, I mean."

"You could say that. Only, Harry, you don't _become_ a wizard overnight. Either you are or you aren't. What Hogwarts does is to make you improve."

"Were my parents good?"

"Each in their own way, they were. Your mother, especially, was a dedicated student, Charms and Potions being her best subjects. Not that she was bad at mine, but out of the two, it was James who was a little more enthusiastic about it."

"I hope I take after him," said Harry. He didn't know exactly if it was because he wanted to please Professor McGonagall somehow, or because it would be one more thing he had in common with his father, but when his time to begin studying came, he knew he would end up paying special attention to her lessons.

"I can only hope you have James's natural skills and Lily's diligence. Those two combined would make any teacher happy. This is not to say I expect you to be their copy. You are your own person, and no matter how much you look like them on the outside, you are free to be whoever you want on the inside. My fingers are crossed, though. I remember your father never studied quite as much as he could have, and still managed to pass with flying colours. He would never memorise the finest details, but his sheer talent succeeded where his efforts failed. One of the best I've ever taught, I say―not everyone else would agree, but as far as Transfiguration goes, you'd really be lucky to take after him."

"Is your subject very difficult?"

"There is a lot of theory involved, and you won't get very far if you don't study that, but there are always a few lucky people who can afford to rely on instinct. So yes, it is difficult, all things considered, but I wouldn't listen to older students if I were you. It's not as bad as they make it out to be. Besides, maybe the gift runs in the family."

"Would it be unfair if you told me some more? I mean, I'd feel bad if I had too much of a head start..."

"You're right, Harry, full private lessons are an advantage I can't give you. Most of my books are about Transfiguration, though, so by all means, you can read them if you're so interested. I would be glad if you did. Just as a tip, I keep the simplest ones on the lower shelves, so start from the bottom. We'll see what stops you first, your height or the difficulty of your readings."

"I'll give it a try right away!"

Harry sprung up from his chair and immediately started scanning the bottom shelf. Aware that Professor McGonagall was watching his every move, he tried to look like he knew what he was doing, but wasn't very successful. At last, he found a title that seemed more promising than the others: _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_, by Emeric Switch. And what was he if not a beginner? He'd spent most of his life not even knowing about magic, let alone all the different kinds of it! He picked it up and noticed that it looked old and worn, as though it had been opened and closed so many times it risked falling apart at his touch. Very, very carefully, he looked for the beginning of the first chapter. The first thing he saw was that some sentences were underlined and that the margins were literally covered in hand-written notes and little arrows pointing to one paragraph or another. Maybe it was a required textbook or something, because by the tone of those notes, it was easy to guess they were supposed to help her with her lessons.

"Is this one okay?" he asked, holding it up so she could read the title.

"I couldn't have chosen a better one myself. You'll have to get one of your own for your first year, so it's a perfect starting point. It should keep you occupied for a while, but I'll go get you something lighter in case you get bored with it. Why don't you go to your room and write down what isn't clear, so you can ask me later?"

"Will you be gone very long?" Harry didn't like the thought of being without her one bit, even if he had no intention to go off exploring Hogwarts on his own.

"I'll make it quick, I promise, and I'll be back with a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_, which is admittedly more exciting than that. You won't have to hide your preference, really – I'm a fan myself, I can understand."

And with that, she left. Harry considered chasing after her and asking to tag along, if only for an excuse to see some more of the castle, but – not for the first time – his curiosity was torn between two things, the wonders outside and the ones contained in the book he was holding. He decided it was wiser to let the latter win for once. Reading was a nice, harmless activity that would keep him busy until she came back, and he really wanted to prove to her that she'd made the right choice in becoming his guardian, not just because it was what he'd heard Aunt Petunia's friends call an act of generosity, but because he could be a good boy if he really tried hard. He would go through the first chapter and probably understand about half of it, and then he would write down loads of questions about the other half. With some luck, the Professor would read the notes, smile and say they were actually _intelligent_ questions. Maybe.

Harry went to his desk, not without a certain spring in his step at the thought that it was his, set all of the miserably failed signs aside with a mental note to throw them away later, found a blank piece of parchment in the middle of all that mess and finally got to work. It wasn't something he would have done in normal conditions: if anyone else told him to sit and read, he would do it because he had to, but get bored with it pretty quickly. He really had to strain his memory to remember the last time he'd been so excited about a book. This, however, wasn't at all like homework: being told to do something he already wanted to do in the first place wasn't as unpleasant as being forced.

The old tome really was intended for beginners, as none of the words were too difficult if taken one by one, but the sentences those words formed were a different story: he thought he was grasping the concept pretty well, but he had the sinking feeling that he was misunderstanding it all and really couldn't get it without her help. It was meant for an audience of people who had never Transfigured anything before, sure, but the way terms such as 'wand' and 'spell' were thrown in almost carelessly every few lines suggested that readers normally knew a lot more about magic in general than he did. He wasn't ready for this. Out of everything he'd read so far, he was only comforted a bit by the part about 'forming a clear mental picture' of what one wanted to Transfigure. That he could definitely do. He'd formed plenty of those before. The few teachers who hadn't fully believed his relatives when they told them to keep an eye on him said he had a great imagination. No surprise there―when reality was too much to take, he would dream up one of his own. Perhaps Transfiguration was just taking it one step further: before he met Professor McGonagall, he could only make things different in his head, but now she would teach him to take those differences _out_ and into the real world.

The rest of the text was full of little technicalities he wouldn't have thought of even in his wildest dreams, but the basic concept wasn't that hard once he got used to it. First of all, he had to come to terms with the idea that turning something into something else at will was not only possible, but even quite common. No one stared in awe when that happened, unless it was a very difficult case or the result was particularly nice to look at. He would do well to remember that, so he wouldn't look stupid when he met other wizards. Secondly, there was the small matter of the spells. Harry had to write down a lot of those, because the book threatened that terrible things would happen if he got the pronunciation wrong, but seeing them on paper wasn't always enough to be sure how to say them properly. He would have to listen to someone who already knew, namely the Professor. He was pleasantly surprised to find out that he hadn't stained the parchment too much, and that copying those strange words carefully, always checking his spelling once or twice more than strictly necessary, had even helped him memorise them. Hopefully she would be proud of him... but no, he mustn't think that. It was a nice daydream, but he wouldn't get very far if he indulged in it and didn't keep working.

As it turned out, Harry managed to read more than he had hoped for. He was well into the second chapter when the distant sound of the main door opening and closing put an end to the study session: either he was a faster reader than he thought, or he'd been alone longer than he realised. He shut the book a bit more forcefully than he should have, rolled up the parchment and dashed to the office. He had the perfect way to welcome her back.

"You're back!"

"And you're excited. Care to show me your questions?"

"Yeah, about that, I was just thinking... was it very hard to get that table ready for lunch?"

"Not really, but let's say I have different standards than most people. Why?"

"Well... because it was really big, but a table and a desk aren't very different to start with, so I wasn't sure if the size alone made it difficult or not." There, he'd said it. He crossed his fingers, hoping he hadn't messed up.

"Well, well, well, it looks like someone has learnt a lot! By the way, the answer is no. I'm used to dealing with large objects by now."

"And you say it like that? Wow! All of the first-year exercises I've seen so far have to do with really tiny things..."

"You've got to start somewhere, right? Anyway, you look like you need a break. Here's the other book, if you're not tired of reading. And... there is a very good reason why it took me so long. Let's just say I had something else to do as well as go to the library."

Her tone was practically begging him to ask what it was, but by the look on her face, she wanted to tell him anyway, so he just waited.

"I made a quick stop along the way to talk to an old friend of mine. Floo Powder can also be used for that, not just to go places. And guess what she told me?"

Harry shook his head in defeat. "I have no idea, Professor."

"Well, you see, this friend has a grandson who is the same age as you are. In fact, his birthday is the day before yours, and if I'm not very much mistaken, the big day is approaching. Long story short, we have arranged a double party for the two of you. What do you say to that?"

**Author's Note:** I know I haven't updated in ages, but reality has been chaos lately, forgive me. Let's just say a period of my life has ended and another has begun, and I still have to adjust. Don't worry, it's a very good thing, but it also means I'm insanely busy. On a side note, I'm not one to beg for reviews, but I can feel the one hundred mark coming closer... come on, you can do it, I'm sure you're just that awesome.


	8. UP FOR ADOPTION!

This story has been officially adopted by potterhead1997. I will try to stay as involved as I can in the writing process, but she's taking the helm from this point on. Alayna, I can never thank you enough for your patience. Once again, I'm sorry for having to do this. I postponed the official adoption for as long as I could, hoping my life would get less hectic, but it hasn't and it probably won't for the next three years or so. Enjoy her version, I'm sure it won't disappoint you!


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